


Now I Can Only Dream (Of Being All You Need)

by AraniaDraws (AraniaArt), IndigoNight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Dissociation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Multi, Multiple Personalities, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Panic Attacks, Scars, non-consensual magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-11 17:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11719266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraniaArt/pseuds/AraniaDraws, https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight
Summary: The Winter Soldier exists for one reason: Protect Bucky Barnes. It is an ongoing mission, one that does not change when their HYDRA handlers are exchanged for the Avengers. Except the Winter Soldier has no defenses against magic, no contingencies planned for when Bucky is ripped out from his protective cocoon and exposed to the world in a body of his own. It’s a mission adjustment that neither of them were prepared for. At least now they have back up, if they’re willing to accept it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is not meant to be an actual depiction of DID or any other personality disorder. I am not an expert. This is a fictional depiction of a concept.
> 
> Title from the Mary Chapin Carpenter song Not Too Much To Ask.
> 
> I have so many thanks to give! First of all, thanks to the SSB mods for organizing the event. Thanks to [my wonderful amazing artist Arania](http://araniaart.tumblr.com). And thanks to the Friday Write Date Night crew, especially [BuckytheDucky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/BuckytheDucky) and [critter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsaer/pseuds/afearsomecritter) who have so tirelessly been so kind and wonderful and encouraging by listening to my endless whining, helping me through tough spots, and giving me such positive feedback.
> 
> This fic has been a long time in the works and it is very near and dear to my heart. I really hope you all enjoy it!

*****  
Prologue  
*****  
The Asset kneels on concrete. He has been kneeling there for some time; his knees are aching. The concrete is cold enough that the chill seeps in through the thick material of his tactical pants. Even if he were allowed to move, he would not find a way to be more comfortable.

His back is a minefield of throbbing, burning pain. It has been flayed, striped bloody and raw, and blood drips in a sluggish trickle. His shoulders are hunched, curled inwards. His lips are pressed into a thin line. He does not make a sound, but he cannot stop himself from rocking very slightly forward and back.

_You’re hurt._

The Asset’s jaw tics.

The body is damaged. It will heal. You should go back to sleep.

_Sorrow. Grief. Heavy and angry and impotent._

You should not be here.

_I won’t let you suffer alone._

The Asset laughs, sharp and raw, and it hurts. This is what he is for.

A memory; an offering. _Hands that are large with knobbly knuckles - almost too large. It is layered over an older memory of the same hands but smaller, finer boned, and cold. Hands that are always gentle. The hands soothe over raw skin, and a pair of lips join them, chapped and rough but kind. Safety. Warmth._

Stop it! He’s dead. I protect you now.

 _We were supposed to protect each other, he and I. He’d protect you too, if he was here._ A sigh; an ache, old and familiar though the face in the memory is hazy as are all things that has happened to the Asset more than three days ago.

Go to sleep. They will wipe us soon, and then I will sleep too.

_I’ll go to sleep before the chair. But not yet._

The Asset will not admit to being relieved.

The Asset does not have to admit to it.

Other memories are offered instead; _sunlight on rusted metal stairs, sprawling out lazy and languid. The crunch of crisp autumn leaves under foot. The taste of fresh apple tart. A tiny child with pigtails giving him a gap-toothed grin and begging for a piggy back ride._

The Asset curls his arms tighter around their body, hunches his shoulders further forward. He makes himself small, as though if he curls up far enough they can both fit into the memories together.

They stay that way until the the sharp slap-slap of boots echo down the hall.

*****  
The world is falling apart around them. The mission is a failure.

The Asset slams in his fist into the Target’s face.

Something in him stirs.

Something in him hurts.

Something in him whispers _don’t_.

The Asset is falling. The Asset _remembers_ falling, remembers a train instead of a helicarrier, remembers looking up instead of down.

The mission given to him by his handlers is a failure. There is no saving it now. But the Asset has a secondary mission, a more important mission.

_Save him._

As you wish.

*****  
The rain is surprisingly soft, more of a mist than a proper rainfall. It mutes everything under a layer of gentle percussion, water against metal.

The urge to run is a building, nauseating tide in the Asset’s chest.

I cannot do this.

_We have to._

The Asset grunts. He presses the flesh hand under the remains of the tactical jacket, carefully feeling torn flesh. His hand comes out streaked with blood, though it only takes moments for it to turn fluid again and run off with the rain.

There’s a dull rumble in the distance; an ordinary person might not have heard it, so different from the deafening transports of the old days. But it still means the same thing, still strikes terror in the Asset’s chest. The glow of a flood light hits the tops of the surrounding trees and then the shattered remains of blown up buildings around them, and the Asset does start to run, his flesh hand shaking around the grip of his gun.

He only makes it a few paces.

_It will be okay._

The Asset refreezes in place. His chest is a block of ice, his heart in his throat.

_A deep voice. Someone pulling the gun from his hands, pushing heated ceramic into them instead. Something heavy and warm wrapped around him. Lips in his hair and a whispered promise._

In the present, the Asset’s gun lands on the ground, half sinking into the squelching mud. His knees follow seconds later. It takes effort to ignore the waves of pain, more effort than it should. The rain now feels cold and invasive, plastering his hair to his neck and cheeks. His left hand shakes as he laces it together with the metal hand behind his head.

_He’ll help us._

You had better be right.

The Asset stares straight ahead as the jet comes into view, as the lights flood over him, exposing him in the harsh white glow. He doesn’t let himself blink, doesn’t let his back bend, even though it feels as though the ground is trying to suck him in and his vision is blurring.

The jet lands. The thump shakes the ground and the hiss of hydraulics cut through the air.

A shape emerges. The light glints off of a circle of red and blue metal. A voice calls.

The Asset doesn’t move, doesn’t blink.

The Asset tries to watch the figure approach, but his gaze will not focus. A shiver forces its way up his spine and he has to close his eyes.

He almost doesn’t feel the hands that pull him out of the mud and back into captivity.


	2. Chapter 2

*****  
Chapter One  
*****

The Asset sits very still. His hands - both flesh and metal - rest palm down on the table in front of him. He answers the questions he is asked. He gives a full report on every mission he has run since he was first let out of that cell in Russia. He details every shot, every death. He does not flinch from the memories. He does not let them hurt him.

Steve Rogers sits beside him, far closer than is advisable. His last mission, his only failed mission, was to kill Steve Rogers. He has no reason to try and complete that mission now, but these people do not know that, and they should not trust it. Steve Rogers does not seem to care. Steve Rogers puts his hands on the Asset’s shoulders. Steve Rogers tells him that it will be okay now, that he is safe. 

Steve Rogers is a fool.

The Asset explains about the chair, because the woman with red hair asks. He talks about the pain, the disorientation. About opening his eyes to faces he knows and does not remember. He tells them about the cryo, about cold so sharp he thinks his bones will shatter.

He is only telling them half of all there is to tell.

He does not tell them why his memories were taken so often. He does not tell them that no matter how many times they wiped him, he always knew what he was doing for them was wrong. He does not tell them why he did it.

He pretends not to see the horror on Steve Rogers’ face. He does not respond when Steve Rogers asks if he remembers anything before the missions. He pretends he does not know why he failed his last mission. He tells them that he does not remember pulling Steve Rogers’ unconscious body out of the Potomac. 

He does not tell them about the voice in the back of his mind whispering _Steve, Steve, Steve_.

*****  
When the severe people in suits leave, the Asset is taken to a bedroom instead of a cell. 

Rogers stands too close in the elevator, but stops himself just short of reaching out to touch the Asset.

The bedroom is comfortable, but bland. A bed. A dresser. Two large windows. A walk-in closet. An adjoining bathroom with both a shower and a bathtub. The Asset considers the space itself to be opulent, though the furniture is simple, solid wood. 

The room is eighty-nine stories above the ground and though the building is in the heart of Manhattan surrounded by skyscrapers, it is high enough that it would be difficult to get a sightline into the room despite the large windows; but that also means the windows offer no chance of an exit route. Beyond that, the furniture and door are simple wood, the walls soft plaster. There are too many potential weapon options in the room to count, and beyond the room the space opens into living room and kitchen furnished spaces that offer even more possibilities. 

This is still a cage. There are only one elevator and one set of stairs that lead to this floor. Most of the floors both above and below this one are occupied by some of the best trained operatives in the world. Additionally, this building has the unique security feature of not only being monitored, but actually controlled by semi-autonomous supercomputer.

It is not a cell. An escape attempt would almost certainly be a failure. But it is still foolish for them to leave him here; he could do a lot of damage to the residents of the building before he is stopped.

Rogers does not seem to even consider that. Rogers stands in the doorway to the bedroom in a manner that suggests he wishes to come in, but like in the elevator he reluctantly keeps some distance. “If you need anything, I’m just next door,” he says. “Or ask JARVIS.”

The Asset stands in the middle of the room and blinks at Rogers.

The voice whispers, _Steve!_

Rogers’ face shifts into a frown that is trying to be reassuring. “You should clean up and get some rest. You’re safe here.” Rogers pulls the door so that it rests against the jam, but does not actually latch it when he leaves.

_Safe._

For now, the Asset answers.

*****

The Asset is left alone. Not in a literal sense, the building is full of people; most of whom likely to do not know about the Asset’s existence, but the operatives involved in the Avengers Initiative as well as a small collections of unofficial associates for the most part maintain distance without avoidance of the Asset. Except for Rogers. Who hovers. Constantly.

They make almost no demands of him. There is an implied understanding that he is not to cause harm to any of the building’s occupants. He is told to eat “whatever he wants,” which causes some consternation as it forces him to face the unfamiliar task of discerning _wanting_ in himself. Rogers asks - not even a command, but a genuine request - that he not leave the Tower without at least telling someone where he’s going and carrying a tracking device enabled cellphone with him. He is allowed to access to over 70% of the Tower - the places he is not allowed are mostly private residences and a few laboratories that contain sensitive research materials. When Rogers is distracted from hovering, the Asset is left without commands and is monitored only by the computer which maintains the building.

It is… uncomfortable.

The Asset has never been allowed so much freedom. For most of his existence, the Asset was not allowed to understand the concept of freedom. The Asset was not given choices. The Asset was not allowed to want, or given the option to determine how his time should be filled. It is overwhelming.

The Asset spends most of his time in his room. It is easiest. It is almost familiar.

The Asset knows the solitude as safety. If he is not in the presence of his handlers he cannot anger them, he cannot fail them, and he cannot fall victim to their boredom. Thanks to the use of cryogenic technology to keep him dormant between missions, the Asset has not had much time to himself in several decades. It is a relief to be given such a gift now.

After all, the Asset is never truly alone.

*****

The Asset keeps waiting to be given a mission.

He waits for training. For maintenance. For punishment.

_Steve won’t let them do that._

One day, the Asset drops his guard long enough for Stark to come within reach. Stark immediately pokes the metal arm with some sort of device. The Asset blinks and the metal hand closes around Stark’s throat. There is a cacophony of shouting. Rogers, Romanov, and Banner all immediately try to insinuate themselves between Stark and the Asset, try to pull his hand away from Stark’s throat.

_Stop! Don’t hurt him!_ There is a feeling in his head that is like metal against broken bone.

The Asset does not think that the device did anything to the arm. There was no pain, no feedback, and it still functions within normal parameters. On later reflection he determines it was likely some sort of scanning device.

The Asset does not crush Stark’s throat. He releases Stark and steps back, nearly all the way to the far side of the room. He drops to his knees and assumes submissive posture.

Stark coughs and wheezes. The others are still shouting, their voices blurring over one another. After a few minutes, Wilson directs the Asset off of the floor and into a chair - a normal wooden chair, one of several that cluster around the large table where they all had been eating before the incident began.

They are all furious. But not at the Asset.

Rogers shouts at Stark for a full fifty-three minutes. He makes Stark apologize to the Asset and promise never to touch him without permission again.

There is no punishment. He is allowed to finish his breakfast without further incident.

The Asset doesn’t understand.

*****

The Asset sits in front of the window in his room. He stares out at the city without seeing it. Images play through his mind like a film strip superimposed over the metal and glass of the skyscrapers that fill his field of vision.

_Dingy brick buildings._

_Men in woolen trousers and hats. Women with bright red lipstick and curls in their hair._

_A shipyard. The stench of unwashed men and rotting fish and the brine of the ocean._

_A tiny apartment._

_Steve Rogers, body too small and anger too big._

The Asset presses his flesh hand to the cool glass in front of him, grounding himself.

_Let me talk to him._

It isn’t safe.

_He won’t hurt us. We aren’t in danger here anyway. Things are different now._

We cannot trust anyone. We have been lied to before.

_A hand touches his face, delicate and fine boned but edged with callouses._

_‘Bucky.’_

_The word is a sigh spoken from lips that are nestled into the crook of his neck. Fine blonde hair tickles his noses. His arms - flesh and blood and not strong enough - squeeze around thin shoulders. His hands trace a crooked spine._

_‘To the end of the line,’ he says, hand on a shoulder that is too thin and carries far too much._

The Asset lurches to his feet and begins pacing. He snarls.

He failed you.

_He’s here now._

The Asset clenches his fist. The internal structures of the metal arm whir as they contract. His bare toes curl into the plush carpet.

_He’s worried about us._

He does not know about us. He misses you, but he does not want me. My presence hurts him.

_Talk to him. We can pretend._

*****

The Asset pauses in the doorway. The shifting, inconsistent glow of the television is the only source of light in the room, but the volume is turned down enough to be nearly inaudible even to enhanced ears. Rogers is seated on the couch in a sprawl that is more exhaustion than comfort. He holds a sketchbook in his lap, but the pencil is loose in his grasp and his gaze is fixed somewhere four inches to the left of the television screen. His respiration is elevated and his shoulders are curled forward. The corners of his eyes are damp.

_Steve_ soft, like a sigh.

The Asset’s chest constricts and his throat swallows around the sudden excess of saliva in his mouth. The Asset nearly turns around and leaves.

Rogers blinks, not quite a startle but his hands flex and tighten before loosening again as he turns to look at the Asset. “Hey Buck,” Rogers says. He attempts to wipe his nose subtly. “You need something?”

The Asset’s knees want to lock. He forces himself to move forward, to sit on the end of the couch farthest from Rogers. Luckily, it is a large couch. He maintains a three foot minimum distance - just out of immediate reach. The Asset cranes his neck slightly to see the exposed page of the sketchbook; the half finished image there stirs up a hazy memory that does not belong to him.

_Talk to him. Just give him something._ Soft, but urgent and pleading.

“There was a tree. You… fell out of it, once. Broke your leg.” The words are halting, uncomfortable, and the Asset has to force every syllable through his lips. 

Talking is so hard. He has spoken more words since coming to this place than he had in the entire past seventy years, he thinks. It has always been best for the Asset to say as little as possible; ‘yes sir’ and ‘ready to comply’ were safe, but little else was. But now Rogers wants him to speak, wants him to _remember_ , and thirteen simple, disconnected words make Rogers light up.

And from there, the Asset does not need to say much. It is as though a dam has broken in Rogers’ throat and words keep spilling out, excited and sometimes a little teary. He says many sentences that start with “Remember when-” and “This one time-” and the Asset listens. He nods as though he knows what Rogers is talking about, makes occasional affirming noises.

_Misty Thompson_ is supplied helpfully during Rogers’ anecdote about misplaced holiday sweets. 

Rogers keeps inching closer, gesturing as he talks. The Asset’s heart rate increases with every inch. The metal arm is making a soft whirring sound as the internal structures tighten to reduce reaction time. Rogers does not notice.

The Asset waits until Rogers pauses for breath between stories. “It is late. Goodnight.” The Asset has risen from the couch and is retreating toward the door before the words have even finished leaving his mouth.

He can feel Rogers’ startled pause behind his back, but Rogers recovers before the Asset reaches the door. “Goodnight, Buck.” His voice is soft, warm.

The Asset’s body is a thrumming knot of tension as he flees the room. Rogers is loose, and there is a small, dopey smile on his lips. Rogers has lost the sadness he carried when the Asset had entered the room, Rogers has spent an enjoyable evening reminiscing about the past.

Rogers thinks he has been talking to Bucky Barnes.

*****

There are strangers in the Tower.

Of course, technically, there are always strangers in the Tower. The lower levels are full of offices, laboratories, shops, and other commercial enterprises. But the residential floors, the parts of the Tower where the Asset spends most of his time, receive visitors in both a limited amount and frequency. 

The Asset sits very still and quiet on the couch while Rogers greets the visitors. The blond man the Asset knows. Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye, is a registered member of the Avengers Initiative. He has a room of his own, and spends time at the Tower in stretches of a few days at a time regularly; however his actual place of residence is an undisclosed location some distance away. He is a disorganized and somewhat foolish man, or appears so at first impression, but he is deeply intelligent and his aim rivals the Asset’s own. The Asset, surprisingly, finds his presence significantly more tolerable than some of the other residents of the Tower.

The two people with him, however, are strangers. Tension is crawling up and down the Asset’s spine. He keeps his face tilted toward the book he is holding on his lap, but watches through the curtain of his hair as Rogers greets all three with a reserved but genuine cheerfulness. Rogers hugs the young woman, and pats the young man on the shoulder affectionately.

_Relax. Clint wouldn’t bring them here if they were a threat._

Barton is fallible. He could be fooled.

The Asset continues to watch them. He makes a show of looking up and gesturing in acknowledgement when Barton greets him. The young man is not paying attention to the Asset, he is speaking rapidly to Rogers, shifting from foot to foot as though he struggles to keep still.

The woman is staring back at the Asset. She hides behind her hair as well, though not as obviously as the Asset does, and it appears to be a gesture of shyness rather than a strategic tactic. There is something in her eyes.

The Asset blinks and realizes that he has been staring into her eyes. Barton is sitting on the couch next to him. The Asset had not noticed Barton approaching. The Asset feels panic rising in his chest.

_She is a nice looking dame-_

No. No more distractions.

Barton is speaking, his eyes darting between the Asset and the girl. There is discomfort in his face and the line of his shoulders. “Sorry to drop in on you like this,” Barton says, with sympathy and sincerity. “We weren’t supposed to get here until tomorrow. I guess Steve didn’t get around to giving you the heads up yet.”

The Asset tilts his head toward Barton and avoids meeting the young woman’s eyes again, though he keeps her in the corner of his sightline.

There is red inside his brain.

“That’s Wanda and Pietro,” Barton continues. He has noticed the Asset’s discomfort, but he does not seem aware of the red. What is the red? Can Barton not see it? “Pietro’s an asshole, but don’t let him push you around and you’ll get used to it-”

The Asset can no longer listen to Barton. There is red in his eyes. His brain feels fuzzy. His heart rate has accelerated well above acceptable perimeters. His right hand is shaking; his left has balled into a fist so tight that the fingertips threaten to dent the palm.

The Asset stands abruptly. Everyone in the room shifts, as natural and automatic as a receding tide - except for the young man, Rogers puts a hand on his shoulder to pull him back - the path to the door is clear and the Asset takes it.

He does not run.

He walks very quickly.

_A low whine, soft, struggling with itself. A longing for darkness. For safety._

The Asset agrees and his legs carry him to his room. A door that belongs to him. A door that locks on the inside. Lights that he controls. He locks the door. He turns off the lights, closes the blinds over the windows. He crawls onto the bed, wrapping the collection of blankets there tight around himself until only his nose is exposed to the regulated air of the room.

He takes a deep breath and waits for the shaking to stop.

*****

The Asset is losing his edge. The Asset has already begun to relax. It is morning, and the strangers are still in the Tower, but the Asset has remained in the apartment level that he and Rogers share.

It is breakfast time. Rogers has been bleary eyed this morning, having stayed up late on the common floor below, talking and eating with the strangers and the residents while the Asset remained securely hidden in his room.

It is unwise for Rogers to be so unfocused and impaired. Although, at least the alcohol that Rogers consumed last night had no actual effect on him. Rogers pauses in his breakfast preparations to lift the empty orange juice carton and attempt to pour it into a glass before he actually stops to realize the juice is not pouring.

_Laughter. Soft and fond. What a dope._

Rogers scowls at the juice carton as though it has deeply offended him. “Be right back,” he mutters, and heads for the door. He is going to the communal kitchen to locate another carton of juice, the Asset conjectures. 

The Asset returns to his bowl of oatmeal. He has learned from Sam Wilson the benefit of including cinnamon and pieces of fresh apple in with the grains and it is quite enjoyable. That has been a strange adjustment since coming to the Tower; the idea of choosing food, of _enjoying_ food. Previously food had only existed as a means of sustenance and as a tool to control and torment him. All of the residents of the Tower have learned very quickly that it is better not to come too close to him while he is in the process of eating, though no one has ever actually tried to take the food from him.

The Asset is distracted. He is not paying attention. He is lulled into an illusion of security by the thus far gentle treatment he has received from the Tower’s residents; he is comfortable and savoring the taste of his meal; he is half lost in a shared memory of apples plucked fresh from a tree, of holding a tiny blond boy on his shoulders to reach a higher branch-

He sees red.

It is a mist that curls through the air. Thin, insubstantial fingers reaching for him.

The chair hits the ground and breaks, though the Asset does not notice.

_What is this_

The girl is standing the doorway. Her hands are loose at her sides; she is not holding a weapon, but she does not need to. The red mist surrounds her hands, twists through her long hair and circles around her head like a wreath.

Her body posture indicates shyness. Her expression is apologetic, and hopeful, and kind. Her voice is tentative. “I can help.”

The Asset does not trust it. The Asset has heard those words before; they are usually followed by needles and restraints and screaming, so much screaming.

There is panic in his chest, an anxious whine in the back of his mind. His back hits the wall. She is between him and the doorway. There is a window two meters to his left, but outside is only open air and a very long fall. It may be a preferable option.

The woman is smiling. Her expression is eagerness, excitement. “There are cracks.” She lifts one hand, fingers long and pointed and tipped in red, toward her own head and gestures. “I can fix them. I can help.”

Her accent is heavy, somewhere in eastern Europe - another time, the Asset would have known her origin within a hundred miles, but now the red mist is seeping into his ears and there is so much _noise_. A shrieking, grinding, tearing in his mind.

_No! What’s happening? Help!_ Panicked. Desperate. Far away? It should not be far away. The distance between them cannot change. He cannot be moving further away from the Asset and yet he is. His voice is faint, though it is shouting.

Stop! the Asset echoes, then, “Stop!” again. It does nothing. It never has.

There is pain, slow building so that he does not notice it immediately.

_Screaming. No, stop! I don’t want to go! Don’t leave me!_

The Asset’s knees hit the ground. He can no longer tell which of them is screaming - both, he thinks, they are both screaming. The pain is growing, all consuming. It is flesh being cut from muscle. It is bone grinding against bone. It is ripping, tearing, pulling, stretching. It is wrong, so wrong. The Asset had thought he’d experienced every kind of pain there is - this is something else entirely.

The woman still stands before him. She is not smiling; she is no longer excited. Her hands are no longer at her sides. They are lifted to press against her mouth. Her eyes are wide. She is speaking again through her fingers but the screaming is too loud. The mist is creeping across the Asset’s vision, hazy red and deepening, surrounding him, sucking him down, down, down.

Everything goes black.


	3. Chapter 3

*****  
Chapter Two  
*****

Steve has been gone for _literally_ less than five minutes. 

He’s halfway back down the hallway to his and Bucky’s apartment when the screaming starts. He drops the carton of orange juice without noticing it and pelts the last few meters into the room.

To his relief, there’s no fire, no blood. The chair Bucky had been sitting in is knocked over, Bucky’s bowl of oatmeal upended with oats and apple chunks scattered across the table and floor. Wanda is standing in the middle of the room, a faint red-pink glow drifting around her like dissipating smoke, but her hands are pressed to her mouth, her dark eyes wide and wet above her lacquered fingertips.

But Steve’s eyes are drawn to Bucky. The night before had been rough, Steve knows, the twins’ arrival at the Tower had thrown Bucky for a loop and their first introduction had been admittedly disastrous, but Bucky had seemed fine when he’d come out of his room for breakfast - or, you know, normal for him these days. Now, Bucky is huddled up in the corner. He’s… naked, which is weird since he’d been fully dressed when Steve left, but now all Steve can see the broad expanse of thick muscle and red, twisted scar tissue around the edge of the metal arm. He’s hunched up, his whole body seemingly wrapped around something nearly the same size that he is and yet he’s managed to hide it entirely from Steve’s view.

JARVIS must have raised some kind of alarm, because Clint, Natasha, and Sam pour into the room behind him. Clint immediately goes to Wanda, wrapping an arm around her and gently ushering her out to the hallway. Natasha plants herself at Steve’s left flank, braced and ready, and Sam hovers somewhere between them and the door, as though uncertain where he can be the most help.

Steve notices and catalogues it all with a distant awareness, but he can’t look away from Bucky. He takes one slow, careful step toward Bucky’s huddled figure. “Buck?” he asks gently. “It’s okay. Wanda’s gone now. You’re safe here.” He’s floundering, but trying. He doesn’t know what happened and the wrong word, the wrong movement can so easily send Bucky off into self-defensive panic these days.

As expected, Bucky’s whole body jerks. He shifts, and his movements are jerky but still too fast to track properly. Between one blink and the next Bucky has pushed the thing - a body, Steve realizes like a bucket of ice water over his head, the thing is a person - he had been curled around back into the corner, as though trying to push whoever it is right through the plaster and into the wall. Bucky ends up facing out into the room, the other person hidden behind him as Bucky crouches low, his eyes sharp and glittering as he stares defiantly at the room at large.

Steve has seen cold, empty determination on the bridge; he’s seen the desperate, fracturing rage on the helicarrier; he’s seen Bucky, weak and injured and cornered when Steve finally managed to track him down and bring him home. But this - the tangled hair, the wide, wild eyes, sharp bared teeth - fierce and furious and _terrified_ , this is something else entirely. This is something… feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again. He keeps his voice so soft, as gentle as he possibly can. He risks another half step forward, his arms loose, palm open and visible, trying to be nonthreatening.

Bucky _snarls_. “Don’t!” he hisses. His voice is all the rough drag of metal and cement and bone. The Russian accent that Steve has heard faint traces of before is out in full force, no trace of Brooklyn left there. “Don’t touch him!” There is a low, but sustained whine coming from the metal arm, which is braced on the floor between Bucky’s knees, both balancing him and prepared to launch him forward into attack as necessary. The sound reminds Steve faintly of the repulsors on the Iron Man armor powering up, and Steve can see the metal plates shifting, _stretching_ as though the entire arm is expanding, making itself bigger, more intimidating. For all his wild panic and tense defensiveness, Bucky’s eyes are sharp and clear and meet Steve like bullets drilling into him.

Steve stops short. He takes a breath. He tries to see the figure that is huddled behind Bucky; whoever it is, Steve thinks he’s a man, he’s roughly the same size as Bucky though thinner. Steve can see a stretch of naked thigh around the bent knee of Bucky’s crouch, the very top of a head of dark hair just over Bucky’s metal shoulder. A right hand, rough and broad, the first two fingers bent at an unnatural angle, slowly creeps around Bucky’s side. Shaking fingers fumble across Bucky’s ribs and up his chest, groping, reaching. The skin is pale, so pale, except for a thick band of distorted red scar tissue that circles the thin wrist.

Steve stares, mesmerized by the hand, the flash of hair. Something is settling heavy and sickening in the pit of his stomach. Steve’s brain can’t process what is happening, he doesn’t understand, but there’s something blocking his throat and squeezing his insides and it’s so hard to breathe.

And then the man shifts. The dark head lifts, just slightly, just enough for wide gray-blue eyes to peek over the metal shoulder. One of the eyes is clouded and filmed over in white, a thick red scar traveling from temple down through the eye to thick, chapped lips. But scar or no, Steve knows the face that’s peering out at him, knows it in a way that makes his stomach hit the floor and his brain feel like it’s been turned inside out.

It’s Bucky.

The man crouching in front is Bucky too, as much Bucky as he had been on that bridge in D.C. - the same face Steve has known since he was six years old, though slightly more harsh, rough and darkened by foreign eyes. But the man in back, single arm clutching for anything to hold onto, is the Bucky that Steve watched fall from a speeding train in 1945; wide eyed, young, terrified, and scarred.

Steve’s legs almost give out on him. “Bucky,” he says, yet again, a scratched record stuck in place, as he struggles to wrap his mind around what he’s seeing.

The one in front - the Soldier, Steve’s brain immediately and firmly latches onto the distinction because he can’t see anything else when he looks into that hard face and the glint of light reflecting off of the arm - shifts, adjusting the balance of his weight. His flesh arm reaches around to twist, tight and secure around Bucky’s waist, tucking Bucky in tight against his side. Bucky’s arm latches around the Soldier’s ribs and Steve can’t help staring for a split second at the stark absence that is Bucky’s left arm - lacking in metal replacement - ending in a mass of scar tissue mid-bicep.

Then the split second ends, and the Soldier moves. He’s fast, so fast, even toting the extra weight of Bucky’s thin body along with him. The Soldier lurches out of the corner, Bucky still tucked in against his side, metal arm toward Steve like a shield, and makes a dash for it. Steve is too startled, or maybe just too slow, but by the time he has uprooted himself from his spot the sound of two doors slamming echo in his ears - first the door to Bucky’s bedroom, then second, slightly muffled, either the bathroom or the closet door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the whole apartment. 

Half a breath.

Then Steve thinks about screaming. He thinks about blood. His mind flashes an endless parade of crime scene photos dug out of the files they’d connected to the Winter Soldier. He thinks _the world’s most famous assassin_.

Steve’s shoulder slams into the bedroom door, nearly knocking it off of its hinges. The bathroom door is still open, so Steve turns to the closet. His ears are ringing but there’s no actual sound coming from behind the closed door. His hand clasps the knob, ready to wrench it open, maybe throw the entire door across the room, but something stops him. 

A pause. A breath. He focuses and his enhanced hearing can just catch two sets of breath inside the small space; one shuddering and panicked, the other tense, rapid but steady. There is no screaming. The slideshow of horror fades out, and instead Steve’s higher brain functions kick in, and his eidetic memory plays back the past couple of minutes; a shaking hand _clinging_ to the Soldier, not pulling away, the Soldier’s whole body tense and braced but focused on Steve, not just defensive posturing but _protective_ , a harsh, warning _don’t touch him_.

Steve doesn’t move. His hand is still on the doorknob - he could open it, there is no lock on the closet, inside or outside - but his head falls forward to gently rest against the wood. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says quietly, the words slipping out automatic and pleading. “Either of you. I promise, you’re safe here. It’s… It’s okay. I just want to know you’re okay.”

There’s silence inside the closet, even the breathing seems to stop for a long minute before starting up again. Calmer, now, Steve thinks, both of them.

“I’m going to open the door,” he says carefully, hand tightening on the knob. “I won’t actually come in, but I’m going to open the door. I need… I need to see, I need to know that you’re-” He swallows hard. His head is spinning, his chest tight, his throat thick and clogged.

There’s no more sound from within, no movement, no protest.

Steve opens the door.

The interior of the closet is dark and musty. Bucky doesn’t have many possessions - he didn’t have any when Steve brought him here except for the clothes on his back, handful of battered notebooks, and a collection of weapons that was both alarming and impressive. The entire collection of clothing that they’ve accumulated for him since his arrival - soft long sleeved shirts, jeans, sweatpants, hoodies, and a couple of t-shirts - have all been pulled down and wrapped around Bucky, as though to cocoon him in a protective layer of fabric. They’re in the farthest corner from the door, and the Soldier has once again positioned himself in a decidedly defensive posture in front of Bucky. He hasn’t bothered to clothe himself, everything in the closet wrapped tight around Bucky and Bucky is half pulled into his lap.

Bucky looks… small. He’s thinner, less bulky than the Soldier version and it’s obvious even under layers of clothes. But more than that he’s curled up small, as though trying to disappear. His single hand is clutching at the Soldier and he’s pressed his whole body in close, his face hidden in the loose strands of the Soldier’s hair. He’s hiding, shaking and gasping.

Steve crouches down in the doorway of the closet, but slightly to the side, careful not to block it completely. He tries to make himself small, non-threatening. “I… I don’t know what’s going on here,” he admits helplessly. His head is still spinning. He feels like he’s seeing double, like this can’t possibly be real. It's all he can do to resist the urge the lurch into the closet and pull Bucky into his arms. 

The Soldier stares back at him with hard eyes. Both of his arms are around Bucky’s shoulders, but his metal arm is facing out, looser and ready to fight - to defend - the second Steve makes the wrong move.

Steve swallows, thick and painful. Bucky hasn’t moved, hasn’t so much as twitched in acknowledgement of Steve’s presence. The Soldier’s right hand lifts, stroking Bucky’s hair and curling around the back of his neck, half covering his ears, keeping his face pressed into the crook of the Soldier’s neck. Steve is baffled, his heart still beating too fast from the adrenaline, but there are tears threatening in the corners of his eyes. “Is he okay?” he asks softly, meeting the Soldier’s eyes squarely.

“He is scared.” It’s a challenge. A threat.

It’s like a bullet to Steve’s chest, but in the wake of the pain is relief and an absolute confidence that whatever is going on here, Bucky is safe with that metal arm wrapped around him.

Steve takes a breath. He forces himself to rise slowly to his feet - careful, measured, no sudden movements. “I’ll, uh, give you a minute.... Find you something to wear,” he mumbles awkwardly, and he retreats so fast he nearly trips over his own feet.

Back out in the living room Sam is sitting with Wanda on the couch, a consoling arm around her as she sniffles and mumbles in Sokovian. Clint is pacing back and forth across the room, while Natasha stands with her arms crossed, silent and blank.

“What happened?” Steve asks. Wanda looks _terrible_ , distraught and so pale she looks sick. Steve feels bad about that, but she was the only one here and Bucky had reacted to her presence before, and, well, she is the only one around with reality altering powers.

“I did not mean to,” she whispers, her accent heavier than ever. “I did not know- I did not realize there were two, I just… I wanted to help.”

Sam squeezes her shoulders, rubbing a gentle hand up and down her arm. “Take a breath for me,” he encourages.

Clint stops pacing and sits down at Wanda’s other side. He catches her hands, gently pulling them away from her mouth so that her fingers no longer muffle the words. She startles, and there’s a faint red glow as she tries to pull away, but Clint holds on, calm and grounding and the glow fades away. She closes her eyes for a moment, breathing and her whole body sways as though she’s being pushed by a strong wind. 

“Clint told me about him, your friend, what they did to him,” she says quietly, her eyes lowered, watching the way Clint’s fingers are smoothing over her own, gentle and reassuring. “About how they hurt his mind.” Her voice cracks a little. She hasn’t said much about her own time with HYDRA, at least not to Steve, but Pietro had gotten drunk once and raved about some of the things they had done to her, when her powers were new and she couldn’t always tell what was real and what was merely the potential of her powers. “I only wanted to help.” Her words are so soft, long fingers twisting anxiously in Clint’s grasp. “But even so, I did not mean-” She takes another breath. “I came up here to apologise. I did not mean to frighten him yesterday, and I wanted to speak to him. But I came in and he was… I could feel the way his mind moved against itself. I felt the cracks, I thought- I wanted to help. I-I didn’t realize they were two.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow and she glances toward the bedroom. “They were two,” she repeats, and it’s more contemplative than questioning.

Clint, however, is on the same page as Steve. “What the hell does that mean?”

Wanda bites her lip and gestures to her own head. “Two, inside of him. Not just cracks, not holes where they ripped him apart. But two… two people.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Like multiple personality disorder,” he says.

Wanda gestures to Sam, lighting up momentarily. “Yes! That is it.” Then she slumps again, back to looking tired and gray as she turns her gaze despondently toward Steve. “I thought I could put them back together. I did not mean to pull them apart.” 

Steve takes a breath and nods. “We understand. You meant well, and can’t always-” he catches himself, grimacing.

“She’s been practicing,” Clint pipes up, loyally protective.

But Wanda matches Steve’s grimace and pats Clint’s hand. “My control is still not very good.”

“Can you undo it?” Natasha cuts in. Steve can’t help but notice that she’s positioned herself between the bedroom and the rest of them.

Wanda blinks, looking up at Natasha, then around the room. She hesitates, licking her lips. “I… I do not know.”

“That’s not exactly top priority right now,” Sam points out. He gives Wanda one more pat before leaning back and focusing on Steve. “Let me guess, there’s two of them, so we’ve got the Winter Soldier, and… your Bucky, we hope?”

Steve shrugs. His mind plays their brief interaction over and over in perfect detail. “I think so?” he offers. “The… one that has the metal arm, he’s really protective of the other one. Wouldn’t let me anywhere near him.”

“We need to talk to them,” Natasha says. She takes half a step toward the bedroom before Steve catches her, holding her back.

“Let me,” he says firmly. Bucky - or, whoever they’ve been dealing with in the past few months - has been jumpy and anxious at best since his arrival at the Tower, but the expressions on both of their faces when Steve tried to approach them- He shakes his head. “We need them calm, not terrified and panicking like they are now.”

Natasha gives him a flat look. “One of them is the Winter Soldier,” she says. “Are you prepared to handle that?”

Steve gives the flat look right back at her. “I don’t think he’ll attack me unless he feels threatened. So yes, I am completely prepared to handle this situation by not threatening them.”

Natasha’s lips are a thin line, her arms still crossed over her body, but she doesn’t say anything else.

Steve hesitates for half a moment, but no one else is saying anything either. So Steve impulsively grabs the worn old quilt from the back of the couch and turns back toward the bedroom. Natasha is still half standing in the way, and he pauses next to her, their shoulders not quite touching. “I know,” he tells her quietly, his head bent toward her ear. He feels heavy and tired and he knows there’s a chance that she’s right, but he doesn’t really believe it. “I’ll be careful.”

She makes a sound that from anyone else would be a snort, but steps out of the way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art thanks to the amazing [ Arania](http://araniaart.tumblr.com)
> 
> The next two chapters will be posted tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

*****  
Chapter Three  
*****

This is wrong.

The Asset is dizzy, his head all at once too loud and too empty. It’s a little like the time that HYDRA had removed the metal arm that the Soviets had made in order to upgrade it, except worse. This is more like someone has reached inside of him and pulled out some vital organ and his body has healed around it but he can still feel the gaping hole of where it should be.

His head is empty, but his arms are full, and that is reassuringly familiar. It is different, of course. Before it had always been metaphysical; flesh and metal arms wrapped around a singular chest, but in the internal space they shared he had spent as much time as he could over the years with his metaphysical arms wrapped around the fragile whisper of Bucky. To be able to hold him in an actual, literal sense is almost nice, almost enough to distract from how terribly _wrong_ it is.

Bucky will not stop shivering. Once Rogers had left them alone long enough to risk it, the Asset had managed to fit them each into a pair of sweatpants, a hoodie for Bucky and a loose long sleeved shirt for himself. It had been surprisingly difficult; his body feels loose, floppy and uncoordinated, and Bucky seems to have almost no control over his limbs at all, except for the ability to cling to the Asset.

It is reassuring to be wearing clothes, but the Asset feels no less vulnerable, and Bucky is still shivering as though he has just come out of cryo. He will not lift his face from where it is burrowed into the Asset’s shoulder, nor will he release his grip now that the Asset is wearing a shirt for him to hold onto.

It is _terrifying_ when the Asset abruptly, and belatedly, realizes that he does not know how to help Bucky because he cannot touch Bucky’s consciousness to discover what is wrong. They have always communicated through words and images, but neither had needed to actually _intentionally_ tell the other something when they shared the same brain. Now the Asset cannot communicate with Bucky at all without utilizing verbal words, words that might be overheard, words that must be forced out of his stiff throat, and words that Bucky must actually respond to.

The Asset loses an unknown amount of time drowning in an overwhelming rush of fear and uncertainty as he mirrors Bucky’s grip just as tightly, utterly convinced that he will never be able to communicate with Bucky again.

It’s foolish, and as soon as the panic recedes enough for him to think clearly again the Asset is both annoyed and embarrassed with himself.

“You must stop crying,” the Asset whispers. He keeps his voice low, his lips pressed against the delicate shell of Bucky’s ear.

Bucky shudders and flinches from him, though he does not let go or pull away.

Bucky has never flinched from him. Even at his worst, even drowning in blood and rage, Bucky has never drawn away from him, never been afraid of him.

This is wrong. Too wrong. The Asset cannot protect Bucky like this; he is soft, exposed and vulnerable. The Asset cannot shield him like this. Bucky needs to be put back where he belongs, safe and sheltered within the armor that the Asset has built between him and the horrors that occur to their body, with their body. But the Asset has been holding Bucky against him, crushed against his chest, as tightly as he dares for some time now and he cannot manage to absorb Bucky back into himself where he belongs.

“You cannot show them weakness,” the Asset tries again, insistant. He tries to push Bucky back enough to lift his face, to look at him.

Bucky makes a low whining sound and resists, but this body he has been given is fragile and no match for the Asset. His eyes are clenched tightly closed, his mouth a thin, wobbling line, and his shoulders are hunched up as though in an effort to cover his ears. His whole thin body shudders, but after a moment and a shaky breath he forces his eyes open to meet the Asset’s gaze.

The Asset rests one palm on either side of Bucky’s neck, bracing him, supporting him. There are tear tracks streaked down his face; the left one tinted faintly pink from the damaged eye. The scars are no surprise to the Asset - this body is a manifestation, he knows on some instinctual level, created by the red mist that had emanated from the woman, but Bucky looks exactly as he has always looked, exactly as he has always been to the Asset. The Asset remembers every wound that is now a puckered red mark on Bucky’s newly manifested skin, remembers the pain-

Pain, that is what is on Bucky’s face. Bucky is in pain. The Asset’s insides all simultaneously clench and reverse inward on themselves. Bucky is in pain and the Asset cannot shield him from it.

But Bucky is calming now. The tears have stopped, and his breathing is beginning to even out, though he does not release his desperate grip on the Asset’s shirt. His good eye searches the Asset’s face, miniscule twitches of delicate muscles that only the right eye can produce while left remains still and discordant. “It’s… too much,” Bucky whispers, and the Asset would not have known he said anything except that the Asset is studying Bucky’s face just as closely as Bucky is studying his. Bucky is still shaking, and he tries to draw his knees up, tries to press his entire body back up against the Asset; he is trying to put himself back where he belongs too, the Asset thinks.

“I can’t,” Bucky gasps, pleading.

The Asset is helpless. He can do nothing but tighten his arms around Bucky. The Asset can think of nothing to say, of no other comfort to give, but before he can try too hard to come up with something his ears pick up the sound of approaching footsteps.

Rogers, the Asset knows immediately. It was inevitable the Rogers would return. It is instinct to tense up, to push Bucky behind him and use his entire body to shield Bucky, to snarl and bare his teeth, to find weapons. But the Asset does not move, he finds himself hesitating, waiting for the whisper in his mind telling him what to do, how to react to Rogers, insisting that Rogers is safe. But the voice does not come, because Bucky is still trying to bury himself in the Asset’s chest and does not seem to know that Rogers is approaching.

The Asset tenses, bracing himself, but otherwise does not move when Rogers’ knuckles rap gently against the doorframe. Bucky startles, violently.

“Uh, guys?” Rogers’ voice is tentative. The Asset is certain that he can feel physical waves of awkwardness emanating even through the door. “I… Can I open the door?” Rogers had left the door nearly closed, though not pushed it in enough to latch. “I won’t come in, promise. I’ll stay outside the door, I just need to talk to you.”

The Asset wants to shout at Rogers to leave them alone. The closet is a fragile illusion of safety, but it is the best they have and that is why the Asset retreated there. The Tower is full of _rooms_ , furnished and comfortable of the sort that real people - that targets - live in. But darkness, quiet, small musty spaces, those the Asset knows. The Asset has lived most of his life in cold, barren cells, locked away deep underground, surrounded by stone and metal. Those cells were never pleasant - _pleasant_ is a thing that has only ever existed in Bucky’s memories - but they were safer than anything else the Asset knew. In the cells they were alone, in the cells their injuries could heal, in the cells Bucky could whisper reassurances and sensations of things that the Asset could never dream of. The closet is like a cell, except that it is softer, warmer, and does not lock.

The Asset does not answer Rogers. He does not say no, in part because he does not believe it would work - choices are traps - but also, the Asset remembers, they have been in the Tower for weeks already, and Rogers has never made any attempt to harm them, not even when the Asset had accidentally attacked Stark. Rogers has prevented others from harming them.

The Asset is unsurprised when Rogers opens the door despite the lack of answer. He is ready, his metal arm lifted to shield Bucky’s face from the inpouring of light.

Rogers hesitates, hovering in the doorway of the closet. Then he awkwardly holds out a blanket. “I thought, uh… you might be cold,” he says. His eyes are on Bucky and there is something in his expression that on another face might be hunger, but on Rogers looks like longing. Rogers has clearly noted the way that Bucky still shakes, the way he hides his face.

The Asset debates the risk, but then carefully reaches out, just barely able to catch the soft edge of the blanket across the distance between them and Rogers releases it so that the Asset can pull the blanket close and wrap it around Bucky. He does not think that Bucky’s shaking is a physical cold that a blanket can cure, but it may provide comfort nonetheless. The Asset knows this blanket, it is the soft, worn one that Rogers keeps on the back of the couch in the living room. Bucky’s memories have informed the Asset that the blanket closely resembles one from his life Before The War, and brought up sensations of warmth and security, Rogers’ tiny body pressed in close against his, and the face of a tired blond woman with kind eyes.

Rogers hesitates for an uncertain moment, then sits down just outside the doorframe and slightly to the side - careful not to completely block it. His eyes flick from Bucky - who has not yet acknowledged Rogers’ presence - to the Asset and back again. Eventually, his gaze settles on the Asset, and the Asset knows this is the beginning of an interrogation.

“Do you… know who I am?” Rogers starts, and he’s studying the Asset’s face like he’s looking for the secrets of the universe.

The Asset does not snort - that would be undignified. “Steven Grant Rogers, alias Captain America. Born 1918 in Brooklyn, New York,” he reports, his voice flat.

Rogers twitches slightly. He struggles with himself for a long moment, and the Asset can see the confliction on his face, the need for understanding mixed with the fear of saying the wrong thing. “Who are you?” he asks at last.

“You know that already,” the Asset says blandly, meeting Rogers’ eyes squarely. Compliance is best, within reason. But the Asset’s secret is exposed; he can no longer protect Bucky merely with silence and evasion. 

Rogers swallows. His hands twitch, half clenching into fists before he forces them to relax again. “And that…” he hesitates, eyes lingering on the blanket covered lump in the Asset’s lap, “that’s… Bucky?”

The Asset’s arms tighten instinctively, the protective urge a living thing that animates his entire body. The look he gives Rogers is hard, a silent warning, which Rogers responds to by holding up his hands, open palms out.

But before either of them can say anything else, Bucky twitches, slowly lifting his head. His face is still half hidden behind the Asset’s neck, but his wide, glazed eyes peek out enough to look at Rogers. “Stevie,” he says, half question and half exhalation. He actually manages to make sound this time, but is it so quiet that without enhanced hearing no one would have heard it.

Rogers swallows. There are suddenly tears on his cheeks and his hands shake. “Yeah, Buck, I’m here.”

There are tears on Bucky’s face again. He drops his head back down, but it is now resting against the Asset’s chest and turned toward Rogers, rather than trying to burrow into the Asset. “They said you died,” Bucky whispers. The words resonate like a vibration inside of the Asset’s chest, and not because the mouth saying them is pressed up against it.

Rogers makes a sound that is very much the sound a person makes when something exactly the right size is shoved down the throat to the sphincter of the stomach. He moves in what is clearly an instinctive reaction, reaching out. 

Rogers hasn’t thought the movement through, but the Asset doesn’t care. He adjusts, putting his own body between Rogers and Bucky and giving Rogers a hard glare. Rogers blinks, then glances down as though abruptly realizing he’s broken his promise. He grimaces, looking agonized, but he shuffles away and presses his back against the doorframe so hard that the wood creaks. “I’m sorry-” Rogers starts, his voice a cracked mess of oncoming tears.

Bucky has hidden his face back against the Asset’s collarbone. He makes a sound too soft for Rogers to hear, but the Asset knows it. “Enough,” the Asset says sharply, cutting Rogers off.

Rogers’ eyes flash and the Asset, alarmingly, can’t determine whether Rogers is about to lash out physically or verbally, but ultimately he does neither. Rogers’ teeth click together, and the wood behind his back creaks again, but he doesn’t move and he doesn’t say whatever had flashed through his eyes at the Asset’s command. 

They sit in silence for a long time. Rogers’ face fluctuates between anger and agony, but as long as he does not move the Asset only spares a fraction of his attention for him. Bucky is the Asset’s primary concern. He is still shaking, a fine but consistent tremor that wracks his too thin body. Carefully, the Asset works his flesh hand through the layers of fabric without dislodging them until he finds a stretch of soft skin. It’s the skin just above Bucky’s right hip, smooth flesh blemished by small, round pits - remnants of a birdshot wound; the Russians had been curious to see if the serum would push the shot out on its own or merely heal over the metal. The body had healed over the metal, but poorly, and it had taken them weeks to bother surgically removing the spheres. The Asset rubs his thumb over the little divots, smooth and consistent. This is what Bucky needs, he knows in the same way that his lungs know to inflate. He knows because he needs it too, because so many of the memories Bucky has offered to soothe them both in quiet moments have always centered around touch, because the Asset will press his face into a hand that is about to hurt him for just a few seconds of relief from the worse of two pains.

“Wanda said-” Rogers starts after seventeen minutes. His voice is still rough and halting, but he presses on. “She said that there were two of you, before she- in the same body- that you already existed.” He’s floundering, struggling for the words - whether because he does not know the right words or because he fears using them will be upsetting, the Asset cannot be certain - but he meets the Asset’s eyes squarely. It is clearly taking effort for Rogers to pull any of his focus away from staring worriedly at Bucky, but he manages to address the Asset directly, expectant.

The Asset deliberates, but there is no keeping the secret anymore, no sense in trying. Bucky had begun wanting Rogers to know anyway, though the Asset resisted exposing him. Bucky is exposed now, whether the Asset likes it or not. He nods curtly, holding Rogers’ gaze.

Rogers lets out a breath like he’s been punched. His eyes flick down to Bucky - or rather, the tangle of hair that is the only part of Bucky currently visible - but back up again quickly. “Should I be worried about you?” Rogers asks. “I mean, you did try to kill me before, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know-” the Asset starts, but he catches himself, internally scolding himself and tightening his mental defenses. He takes a slow, steadying breath, and the heat of Bucky’s skin, the uneven but familiar texture of it beneath his fingers ground him. “I keep him safe.” He keeps his voice firm and hard as he says it, making sure that his expression shows the gravity that lives in the meaning of those words, making sure his whole body shows it.

Rogers studies him for a long minute. It is a look that has never been aimed at the face the Asset wears before. Bucky has seen it aimed at others, but never at himself. And until now, Rogers had believed that the Asset was merely a mask forced onto Bucky. Rogers is beginning to recognize, beginning to understand how untrue that is.

“Just to be clear, keeping him safe does not mean taking him back to HYDRA, right?” Rogers’ voice has taken on an undertone of levity that is entirely inappropriate for the question.

The Asset’s entire body reacts, recoiling. He spits onto the carpet between them and his arms tighten until Bucky makes a soft squeak of protest. “пошёл на хуй,” he snarls, and the words are acid in his throat, the taste of rubber in his mouth, and crackling ozone across his skin.

Rogers startles a little at the vehemence of the Asset’s reaction, but then he has the audacity to make an expression that is almost a smile. “I’ll take that as a no,” he says. Some of the tension drains out of Rogers, his shoulders loosening and he stops leaning quite so hard against the wall behind him.

*****

Steve is staring. He’s very aware of it, and in different circumstances he might have been embarrassed for being so rude. But the Winter Soldier hasn’t told him to stop, and Steve’s brain feels like it’s stuck on a recursive loop; there are _two_ Buckys.

Steve is an adaptable guy - or, at least, he has been since his brain was flooded with a super serum that could and would rapidly rewrite his neural-pathways, according to Bruce. When he woke up in the future, after spending a little time wallowing in grief, he’d set himself to learning the future the same way he had learned to fire a gun, learned to throw the shield, to survive in a warzone. When aliens had started falling out of the sky, he’d handled it. All of the other weird and supernatural things and beings he’d encountered since then, he’d dealt with. Even his best friend coming back from the dead and trying to kill him, he’d processed that. But this, this has his brain stuck.

They aren’t the same. He knows that, knows it instinctively. He’s pretty sure that even without the obvious scars and metal arm that set them apart, he’d still know which is which. Like identical twins, they have the same face but aren’t the same man. Despite this, his brain can’t let go of the words _two, there are two of them_.

“It’s been you, hasn’t it?” Steve asks, even though it isn’t really a question. “This whole time, it’s been you that was… in charge.” He flounders a bit over the words, unsure how to phrase the things he’s thinking. He has a vague concept of multiple personality disorder, as Sam had called it, picked up from pieces of some tv program he hadn’t paid attention to, he thinks. But he doesn’t really understand it, and anyway, he isn’t entirely sure that that’s actually what applies here.

After a moment, the Winter Soldier nods slowly, deliberately. All of his movements are deliberate, in the nearly half an hour that they have been sitting here the Soldier hasn’t looked away from Steve once. He blinks slowly and routinely, like clockwork, and the only other movement that Steve can see is the occasional shift of his flesh hand somewhere under the blankets. Steve can’t tell what he’s doing with that hand, but it seems to be helping Bucky at least marginally. “He tells me what to say, sometimes,” the Soldier says after another moment, and every time he speaks that voice is like a slap to the face. Bucky’s face, Bucky’s lips, more familiar to Steve than his own, shaping words that come out in a thick Russian accent, without a trace of Brooklyn.

“How much do you know about… about me, about him?” Steve has to swallow, has to force himself not to fidget. All of the weird shit that has happened in his life over the past few years, and this is the most surreal experience he has ever had to deal with.

The Soldier’s head tilts and he looks faintly bemused. It’s jarring to see that face show something that’s almost humor but utterly lacking in the warmth, the bright glimmer that Steve used to find in Bucky’s eyes. “Everything,” he says.

That single word is too much, it encompasses so many things that Steve can’t… he has to back away from that train of thought.

Distantly, Steve can hear movement and voices out in the main room. He’d closed the door to the bedroom behind him, so the sound is muffled but still audible to enhanced hearing. He’s pretty sure he can hear Tony, rambling something about energy fields and laws of physics. Steve’s pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to follow what Tony is saying even if they were in the same room. But then there’s a commotion that signals the all too familiar sound of a body being physically blocked from doing something and Tony’s overly loud protest of “I need readings! I need to see what I’m working with.” Natasha’s and Clint’s voices simultaneously giving responses that follow the same line as “go in there and you’ll find yourself missing some important body parts” though it’s impossible to tell whether they’re threatening to do the dismembering themselves or merely warning Tony about what the Winter Soldier might do. Bruce’s quieter tones come in right on the heels of Clint and Natasha, and Steve can’t hear the words, but he guesses it’s an ineffectual suggestion for Tony to calm down.

The Soldier is tense all over again and it’s obvious that he can hear what’s going on in the outer room just as well as Steve can. “What do they mean?” he asks stiffly.

Steve bites his lip, then shrugs. “The science isn’t really my forte,” he admits. “But this-” he fumbles, gesturing vaguely toward the twin figures in front of him, “It is exactly the kind of… weird, that Tony and Bruce usually deal with.”

The Soldier grinds his teeth, his eyes hard and calculating like he’s planning escape routes. When some one - Tony, of course it’s Tony - bangs on the bedroom door the Soldier moves in a way that is both a startle and very nearly the beginning of a mad dash for the nearest window.

“Hey Cap!” Tony shouts, far louder than necessary and still banging on the door. “I need to take a look at your doppleganger boyfriends to make sure they aren’t going to implode and take out half the city or something!”

The Soldier pauses halfway out of his crouch, his arms still tight around Bucky who doesn’t seem to have noticed what’s going on around him. He narrows his eyes at Steve, his mouth twisting into something complicated. “Implode?” he repeats slowly.

Steve grimaces and shrugs again; fuck but he hates feeling this helpless. “Wanda’s magic can be… unstable?” he offers, cautious and sympathetic. “We don’t really understand it - she doesn’t really understand it. I don’t know about imploding, but… we maybe should let them make sure both of you are… stable?”

 

The Soldier’s gazes out into the room behind Steve. His eyes flick first left, in the direction of the door, then right toward the windows - which are not a viable escape route and Steve really wishes he would stop doing that. He’s hesitates, deliberating, his jaw tight and metal fingers twitching.

“No one touches him,” the Soldier says. It’s a demand, but it’s also bargaining and Steve’s heart twists painfully. 

Steve nods before he can even consider it, before he can caution that a little touching might be necessary; he doesn’t know what Tony will need for his tests. “We won’t hurt him,” he promises, a little belatedly but more honestly. 

The Soldier narrows his eyes unhappily, but nods. Steve is so relieved that he stands immediately, rolling stiffly to his feet. For a fraction a second he almost holds out a hand to help the other two to their feet, but he catches himself and instead turns toward the door to the main room. He doesn’t wait for the Soldier to follow him, in part because he wants the chance to get to Tony first and caution him toward restraint, and partially because he doesn’t think the Soldier will risk moving if Steve stands there and watches him.


	5. Chapter 5

*****  
Chapter Four  
*****

The Asset secures Bucky in the corner of the couch closest to the bedroom, in case they need to retreat to the closet again. He pointedly settles himself between Bucky and the other occupants of the room, which currently includes Stark, Banner, Rogers, Barton, and Wilson. The red woman is gone, which provides the Asset with a miniscule modicum of reassurance. Banner and Stark are hovering close together, Banner holding a tablet and Stark some sort of remote shaped device.

The Asset does not like it.

He knows that Rogers had explained the rules to the others before the Asset brought Bucky into the room. Nonetheless, the Asset does not trust Stark. 

The Asset loses a few seconds waiting for Bucky to chime in and point out _you don’t trust anyone_. It is with, yet another, jolt that the Asset remembers Bucky is entirely unaware of his thoughts. It is an even bigger jolt to realize that Bucky is no longer burrowing into the Asset’s chest, but rather is watching the others with dazed, red rimmed eyes.

“So,” Stark declares, rubbing his hands together in a manner that suggests excitement and reminds the Asset of a villain in a cartoon they had watched a few weeks ago. “What exactly are we dealing with? Wanda went and turned murder-bot into a real boy?”

The Asset glowers.

Banner is smart enough to interrupt before Stark can say anything else that the Asset would find worth the effort of killing him for. “It’s, uh, nice to properly meet you, both of you.” Banner’s words are fumbling, a shy awkwardness that is not uncommon for him, at least based on his previous interactions with them.

“Right, yeah, introductions,” Stark pushes his way back into the conversation, waving a hand breezily. “That’s Bruce, I’m Tony, we’re the guys who are gonna make sure you don’t rip a hole in the fabric of reality or something.”

The Asset is, of course, not stupid enough to actually kill Stark; at least not with witnesses. But it is more difficult to resist the urge without the familiar, soothing presence in the back of his mind. It is distracting to be suddenly so keenly aware of the absence. He had been aware, of course, but after those initial, disorienting moments, he’d been too busy focusing on keeping Bucky’s new - fragile - physical body safe.

It is yet another discomforting jolt when Bucky speaks. “We know you,” Bucky says. His voice is still soft, raspy and grated raw, and his hand is still twisted into the fabric of the Asset’s shirt. But he has achieved a level of calm. He is sitting in the Asset’s lap by all but the strictest of definitions - his ass partially on the couch cushions but his legs from upper thigh down curled over the Asset’s legs. His head is still resting on the Asset’s shoulder, as though he is too tired to hold its weight himself, but his eyes are mostly clear and focused.

The Asset should find this a positive sign. The Asset had desperately wanted for Bucky to stop crying. Had ached - is aching, to hear Bucky’s familiar voice, even if it is discomforting to hear it with his ears instead of his internal consciousness.

Banner seems startled, though whether in response to Bucky’s words or the fact that Bucky had spoken, the Asset cannot be sure. “Right, of course. Well. Do you mind if we take a few scans-”

“No touching,” the Asset interrupts before Banner can finish his question.

“No, not at all,” Banner assures quickly. “Nothing invasive. Really, JARVIS has already given us most of what we need. We’d just like to get slightly more detailed readings with this-” Banner gestures to the device that Stark is holding, then takes the device out of Starks hands. Banner ignores Stark’s protest, but Stark only subsides after receiving a warning recitation of his name from Rogers.

Bucky is shifting in the Asset’s arms. He is squirming and leaning forward slightly, as though trying to look at the device. Banner is still talking, but he is also coming closer, holding out the device.

The Asset’s heart rate is well above baseline. There is the sound of blood rushing in his ears. The plates of his metal arm shift and tighten. His teeth grind.

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers, quiet and right in the Asset’s ear. The Asset’s eyes close and for a fraction of a second he thinks that the world has righted itself, that Bucky has slid back into his mind where he belongs. But Bucky’s hand has released the Asset’s shirt to stroke at his chest instead and Banner is still far too close. The Asset has to open his eyes again, has to stare at the device as Banner holds it out.

Banner squints at the device, muttering something. Stark makes sounds that are probably words but at the same time he steps forward and the Asset’s entire body pushes both Bucky and himself deeper into the couch cushions while simultaneously _growling_ at Stark.

Rogers wraps an arm around Stark’s shoulders and ignores Stark’s protests. The Asset relaxes fractionally and lets Bucky’s soothing murmur and Banner’s gesturing filter back into his awareness.

The Asset needs to listen to Banner. He needs to keep a full awareness of the situation. But he can feel Bucky’s heart beating against his chest. It is at odds with his own heartbeat. The lack of synchronicity is all consuming. Bucky’s breath is warm and damp against the Asset’s collar. Bucky’s singular hand is still stroking slow, soothing movements over the Asset’s sternum. _Bucky_ is paying attention to Banner, but he cannot relay the information to the Asset directly.

“Now, I’ll need you two to move apart for a minute. We need to get readings on you individually in order to-”

“Нет.” The Asset’s head whips around so fast the bones crack, and his response is so hard, so _instinctive_ that it comes out in Russian and he has to repeat himself in English. “No.” His arms have tightened around Bucky again and he gives Banner a cold, hard look that makes Banner take three steps back, away from them. It no longer matters what else Banner had been saying. Clearly this is all been some kind of ruse, a patient trick to convince him to let Bucky out of reach, to allow them to be separated. They will take Bucky away. They will destroy them. The Asset cannot allow that.

The Asset’s feet are braced. His thigh muscles tense. He is standing-

Bucky shifts out of the Asset’s lap. His movements are careful, off balance and uncoordinated, as he scoots down the length of the couch to sit on the farthest cushion against the opposite arm rest. “Is this enough?” he asks.

The Asset stares. His arms are still extended. Open. Empty. Bereft. 

“That’s great,” Banner says. He starts to move toward Bucky with the device, but pauses, glancing at the Asset. “I won’t hurt him,” he reassures gently. “Won’t even touch him. This will just take a second.”

The Asset’s entire body is tense and coiled. His heart is beating so fast that it is making the edges of his vision go gray. There is pain in his chest and he thinks distantly that his hyper-working heart must have caused a fracture in one of his ribs.

Banner waves the device around Bucky. He then does the same to the Asset - though with an extra meter of space between them, his arm holding the device extended to its full length.

The Asset only realizes he had stopped breathing when the weight of Bucky’s slim body settles back into his lap and his lungs inflate with a suddenness that produces an alarmingly loud gasping sound.

Bucky does not return to his previous situation of being only half in the Asset’s lap and half tucked up against the cushions of the couch, but rather chooses to perch directly in the Asset’s lap, his arm slung loosely around the Asset’s shoulders and his head tucked in under the Asset’s chin. Bucky closes his eyes, rubbing his nose into the hollow of the Asset’s collarbone and takes a deep breath.

The Asset is horrified to realize that his own eyes are stinging with tears.

“Sorry,” Bucky mumbles, low and just for their ears. Bucky has begun to tremble again.

Banner has retreated back to where Rogers continues to keep Stark contained, so that he and Stark can gesticulate and mutter about whatever results the device has given them. Rogers releases Stark, apparently trusting Banner to control him now, and moves very carefully to sit in the arm chair adjacent to the couch. Not too close, but between the couch and everyone else in the room. He is watching them both with an expression that makes the Asset feel naked.

The Asset very much wants to return to the closet. But it would be difficult to move with Bucky now situated as he is. And the entire purpose of this exercise has been to ensure that their current situation will at least not degrade to something even more terrible, which means that the Asset must wait to be briefed on the data that the device has procured. 

Two water bottles are placed on the coffee table just within the Asset’s reach. The Asset startles violently. Wilson immediately holds up his hands and backs up, sitting on the far arm of the chair Rogers is sitting in - out of immediate reach, not that it matters, both Rogers and the Asset could cross the scant few feet between them in a fraction of a second. 

The Asset just barely bites back a snarl. In his concern over Stark and Banner and their device, he had nearly forgotten about Wilson’s presence. His eyes dart around the room, re-cataloguing entry points, potential weapons, and occupants. Stark and Banner seem to have entirely forgotten the rest of them, their attention on the data now floating on transparent screens in the air around them. They are a reassuring distance away, but they are partially blocking the way to the bedroom. Rogers and Wilson seem content to sit just out of arm’s reach, watching Bucky and the Asset with what appears to be concern and curiosity, respectively. And Barton - the Asset wants to snarl again, because he had _also_ nearly forgotten about Barton. This is unacceptable! - is standing quietly at the edge of the room. He is not quite blocking the doorway to the rest of the building, but his position is purposeful. He is staying quiet, unobtrusive, _allowing_ himself to be forgotten, but he is watching. He is a sniper, after all, that is what snipers do.

“The scientists might keep mumbling at each other all day. You two should at least hydrate,” Wilson says. His voice is casual, as is his perch on the arm of Rogers’ chair, but the tension in his body makes it a failed effort.

The Asset eyes the bottles disdainfully. He isn’t stupid. There could be any manner of poisons or drugs in there. There could be-

Bucky reaches out and picks one of the bottles up. He then pauses, blinks at where his left arm isn’t, and thrusts the bottle at the Asset.

The Asset narrows his eyes, which makes Bucky roll _his_ eyes. Bucky raises one eyebrow and the Asset huffs. He takes the bottle from Bucky’s hand, inspecting it thoroughly for any sign of tampering, before cracking the lid and offering it back to Bucky. Bucky refuses to take it until the Asset accepts the second water bottle. 

Once the bottles are open and the Asset can smell the refreshing scent coming from the chilled liquid, he realizes that he is, in fact, desperately thirsty. He drinks the entire bottle quickly, instinctively wary about it being taken away from him - food and water are highly effective means of controlling a person.

When the bottles are empty, the Asset places them back on the table. His eyes now cannot stop darting around the room. He cannot allow himself to lose track of his surroundings again. He must stay focused; must stay vigilant. Bucky is exposed and vulnerable.

“So,” Wilson say after several minutes. His voice is still too casual and it grates on the Asset. “You guys know who we are. Fair’s fair, want to tell us about your-, uh, selves?”

The Asset resists the urge to roll his eyes. They have already been over this with Rogers. Rogers had put together the situation fairly easily, and the Asset is completely certain that Wilson has as well. The question is redundant, an attempt to goad them into revealing more information, which the Asset will not do. He does not intend to tell these people anything. He has endured interrogations these people cannot even dream of. They will have to work hard to break him.

He flexes his arm around Bucky, cautioning him silently not to speak. It’s strange to have to do so, and it should be unnecessary - Bucky knows as well as he does the risk of being exposed. Bucky knows what people, any people, are capable of. That is, after all, why the Asset exists. Regardless, Bucky does not seem interested in Wilson’s questions. He has rested his head back against the Asset’s collarbone, his body limp and exhausted, and his eyes closing and slowly blinking open again, as though it is a struggle to remain awake.

The silence stretches and Wilson does roll his eyes. “Alright, fine, redundant question anyway. How about something more important: are either of you hurt? Are you in pain?”

The Asset just blinks at Wilson. Does Wilson actually think he is stupid enough to admit that kind of vulnerability? Now that he has been reminded, however, he does find it prudent to do an internal check. There is the all too familiar, sustained ache of metal poorly joined to bone, slightly elevated above standard baseline, likely due to carrying Bucky’s newly separate body around. There is a low throbbing in his head, but the physical discomfort is negligible compared to persistent, echoing sense of there being _too much_ space, the gnawing, hollow absence where Bucky is supposed to be. Nothing worth reporting, even if he was inclined toward telling them.

But Bucky is still trembling faintly in the Asset’s arms. Bucky’s heartrate is elevated, and there is a frequent but irregular hitch in his breathing. When his eyes are open his single functioning pupil is blown far too wide for the present levels of light in this room.

The Asset had inspected Bucky before dressing them earlier; there are no visible wounds. The scars are just that - scars, ugly and stiff but healed over and posing no threat. Bucky has no broken bones, and no lacerations, swelling, or other indicators of damage to his head. But there could easily be much damage that is not outwardly evident. The word _unstable_ floats through the Asset’s mind again, and he cuts his attention toward the scientists.

He can feel Wilson growing impatient with his refusal to answer, and Rogers’ eyebrows are attempting to create a canyon of concern on his face. 

Impatient handlers mean punishment- 

Refusal to comply means- 

Resistance-

His thoughts are in fragments. Because half of him is missing. Because he is waiting for Bucky.

Impatient handlers mean punishment- _they aren’t our handlers._

Refusal to comply means- _they won’t hurt us._

Resistance- _they just want to help._

But Bucky can’t hear his thoughts any more. Bucky isn’t going to argue with him. Bucky-

Bucky pulls back enough to look at the Asset. The hollow between his eyebrows is similar to Rogers’, and the expression makes the scar across his face stand out in stark red and white. He tilts his head, studying the Asset, then his face smooths out into a tiny, uneven smile. He leans in, pressing his forehead against the Asset’s. The Asset can feel Bucky’s breath, feel their chests moving together and the soft puff of exhalation against his cheek.

The Asset has to close his eyes. He presses his forehead tighter against Bucky’s, relishing in the pressure sensation. He has the inexplicable desire to cry. He can feel every tremor, every hitch in Bucky’s breath, and for a second it’s almost, _almost_ enough. His head still feels too big, too empty, he still feels as though his insides have been scooped out and torn apart. But Bucky is present. Bucky is warm and real in his arms. He may not be able to hear Bucky in his mind any more, but there are a thousands words, worries and reassurances, entire conversations had without sound as they hold tight to each other and breathe slowly.

“No physical injuries,” the Asset reports after several minutes. His heart rate has finally returned to baseline, and he can feel the matching ba-bump of Bucky’s heart where they’re still pressed together. He doesn’t open his eyes or pull away, not yet; he lets himself have just a few more minutes of this connection, this illusion that everything is alright again. “Pain and vital functioning are within acceptable parameters.”

“Define ‘acceptable parameters’,” Rogers says, and the low timber of his voice startles the Asset, just a little.

Reluctantly, the Asset opens his eyes and adjusts their position enough so that he can look at Rogers. The unhappy crease between Rogers’ eyebrows has deepened, and his hands are gripping the armrests of the chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

The Asset wants to glower, wants to refuse to answer. But-

“Low level distraction that will not impede function. Expected to return to baseline without requiring outside assistance,” he explains, though it takes some effort to force the words out. Rogers does not look satisfied and the Asset has to resist the urge to sigh. “Sustained ache in the head,” he reports. “Stiffness in metal shoulder. Discomfort-” he has to stop. How does he finish that? How does he explain what it is like to be alone in his body for the first time in his life? The strangeness, the sense of his skin being at once too loose and stretched thin, the echoes in his brain, the hollowness in his chest. He does not have the words for it, and even if he did, he does not think that they will understand. So he shrugs and settles for, “mild general discomfort.”

Rogers looks vaguely relieved, but he does not relax and his gaze shifts to Bucky.

Bucky fidgets slightly, ducking his head back under the Asset’s chin. “Sore,” he says, voice low and raspy. It is so strange to have to strain to hear him when he speaks softly; before the Asset had always been able to understand him perfectly, no matter how faint his voice or presence was. “Shaky. Weak.” He shrugs, wearing an expression of helplessness, and the Asset recognizes it instantly, matches it to his own failure to find words. The separation must feel strange to Bucky as well. And it has been a very long time since Bucky has had to care for a physical body - the Asset had charged himself with that since his birth - perhaps Bucky has forgotten how to recognize and catalogue sensations. 

The Asset rubs a hand up and down Bucky’s back. There is a low buzz at the base of his skull, uncomfortably like the chair powering up, a warning hum of _failure. Mission failed._

Wilson looks mildly curious, but appeased. Rogers’ hands relax, though his shoulders do not. 

The Asset ceases to pay attention to either of them, because the scientists have wondered back over. The Asset focuses his attention on them, studying their faces for clues. “Is he stable?” the Asset asks, the words coming out harsh and urgent. 

“Well, a blood test would really-” Stark starts, but stops when Banner’s elbow finds its way into his ribs. “As far as we and JARVIS can tell you are both fully formed and functional organic beings.”

“We’ve got trace readings of an energy signature that matches Wanda’s powers around both of you, a little stronger around Bucky than-” Banner fumbles, gesturing expansively toward the Asset, “-but the energy seems to be dissipating without having an affect on either of your existence. So-” Banner gestures again, this time a shrug with his hands spread wide and open palms turned up, “-Yes, as far as we can tell, you’re stable.”

“Which means I need to go have a conversation with our little reality bender about the laws of physics and her habit of breaking them,” Stark mutters in an undertone. “Again.”

“Can you put us back?” the Asset asks, refusing to be distracted by thoughts of the red woman and her powers.

There is a palpable shift in the air of the room. The scientists glance at one another. Rogers half lurches out of his chair. Wilson catches Rogers, squeezing his shoulder with an intensity that looks painful. Even Barton, over by the door and allowing himself to be forgotten, adjusts his stance. This shift is accompanied but several exchanges of looks; Wilson looks at Rogers, Banner looks at Stark, Stark and Banner both look to Wilson and Rogers, and Barton stands in the background of it all watching the Asset and Bucky without blinking.

It is a confounding response to an obvious question.

When the exchange of looks is done with, they all decide to try speaking at once, though none of them seem to actually have anything to say.

“Are you sure that’s-” Wilson.

“Bucky- I mean-” Rogers.

“Don’t want to rush-” Banner.

“But _physics_!” Stark.

The Asset ignores them and brings his attention to Barton; Barton brought the red woman here, Barton has displayed an apparent understanding of her purpose and her powers. Barton has also not joined into the melee of conflicting and unnecessary words. The Asset stares at Barton, and waits.

The others all come to the conclusion that none of them know how to finish the sentences they have begun and fall into awkward silence.

Barton stares back at the Asset, expression level, assessing. “It took a lot of power to separate you,” Barton says eventually. “It’ll be a while before she’s up to that kind of mojo again.”

The Asset’s lips purse; it is not a favorable answer, but it is not a worst case scenario. “Define ‘a while’,” he says, and it is not a request.

Barton shrugs, a little too casual. “Can’t,” he says, without apology. “That’s up to her.”

The Asset likes that answer even less. But Bucky has always been an exceptionally skilled sniper, and thus, at his core, so is the Asset. They know how to wait. How to hunker down and hold tight until the moment for action comes. The Asset may not like the vulnerability that having two bodies presents, he may not like the risk of being geographically separated, and he certainly does not like the unsettling emptiness in his mind, but none of that will stop him from sticking to his mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two chapters will be up tomorrow.
> 
> Enjoy.


	6. Chapter 6

*****  
Interlude  
*****

Steve is at a loss.

With nothing more to contribute and the Soldier still regularly glowering daggers at Tony, the scientists filter out of the room, still mumbling about their data. Clint leaves not long after to go check on Wanda.

Sam gives Steve a series of significant but unhelpful looks, jerking his head toward Bucky and the Soldier pointedly. After a full minute of Steve staring at Sam uncomprehendingly, Sam huffs and rolls his eyes. “Well,” Sam declares, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation, “I have _lunch plans_ , so you guys have fun.” With a heavy emphasis and one more significant look, Sam claps Steve companionably on the shoulder and leaves. 

Even as he is staring after Sam’s back, Steve is hit by a wave of gratitude and relief. God fucking bless Sam. Lunch. Concrete and actionable. Steve can handle that. “Hungry?” he says, internally wincing at the near squeak of false cheer in his voice. He can’t bring himself to wait for an answer, turning away from the two sets of eyes that are at once familiar and so unsettlingly foreign. 

In the kitchen Steve stops, staring blankly at the fridge door. For one irrational moment he thinks he’s drowning, thinks he’s back in the sinking plane as ice water creeps up around him. Then he blinks, takes a deep breath, and sets about digging through the cabinets.

Steve hasn’t bothered with groceries recently, but JARVIS keeps all the kitchens stocked with some basics automatically, so it’s easy enough to dig a box of pasta and a jar of meat sauce out of the pantry. Steve’s never been much of a cook, but boiling pasta and heating sauce he can handle.

He starts and nearly drops the jar of sauce when the Soldier comes into the kitchen behind him. He’s carrying Bucky on his left hip like a child, but he sets Bucky down in one of the chairs around the simple wooden table before dragging another chair around to sit next to him. By the time Steve is ladling the pasta into two - no, three - three bowls, the two are sitting so closely together that Steve can’t tell which legs belong to who, and Bucky’s head is back to resting nestled against the Soldier’s neck.

Steve takes a deep breath, bracing himself, then carries the bowls and a loaf of bread over to the table. He sets the bowls down and sits across from the pair, like this is normal, like this isn’t the craziest event in a lifetime of crazy.

The Soldier sniffs at the pasta suspiciously. He spends a full five minutes inspecting it and cautiously eats three noodles before letting Bucky touch the bowl. The silence as they eat is heavy, despite Steve’s best attempts to ignore it. Twenty minutes and most of the pasta later, Steve can’t take it any more.

“I really need something besides Winter Soldier to call you,” Steve says, shoving his empty bowl away and slumping back in his chair.

The Soldier blinks at him. “Asset,” he says blandly.

“No, I mean- a name, what’s your name?” Steve has to forcibly unclench his hand before he crumples the fork he’s holding.

The Soldier blinks again, slow as though expressing excessive patience. “Weapon. Dog. Who-”

“Those aren’t names,” Steve interrupts, his frustration bubbling over before the Soldier can list any more increasingly horrible terms he’s undoubtedly been called over the past seventy years.

The Soldier opens his mouth again, his posture distinctly combative, but before he can make a sound the loud bang of a fork being slammed down against the wooden table makes them both jump. “His name is Winter,” Bucky says firmly, his jaw clenched mulishly as he glares at them both. He narrows his eyes at the Soldier and Steve can see an entire conversation of microexpressions passing between them, even if he doesn’t understand it. But evidently Bucky wins, because the Soldier huffs and drops his fork to the table too.

“Sure, Winter, okay.” Steve takes a steadying breath. “Have you… had enough to eat?” He eyes the bowls. Winter’s bowl is still nearly half full; Bucky’s looks barely touched. Nevertheless, they both nod. 

The Soldier - Winter stands, picking Bucky back up as effortlessly as holding a teddy bear. “Bucky needs rest,” he declares, and without giving Steve time to respond carries Bucky toward the bedroom and closes the door firmly behind them.

Steve stares after them, feeling as though his insides have been pulled out of his chest and then put back in wrong. It takes him a full ten minutes to pull himself together enough to clean up the remains of dinner. He can’t stop himself from glancing at the closed bedroom door every couple of minutes, but the door remains closed and the silence seems to echo in Steve’s ears.

*****  
For a second, Bucky thinks he’s falling. He hadn’t been dreaming about The Fall - his dream had been something slashed in red and full of screaming - but in the time between the dream ending and his brain reengaging there is a horrifying moment of freefall that ends with his single hand clutching desperately at soft cotton sheets. 

His head is spinning. Everything is strange. He is expecting rough wool. He is expecting cold stone. He is expecting empty air miles above a snow covered valley floor. His heart is pounding, blood rushing in his ears and it takes him several seconds to separate out the two sounds, and then even longer filter them out enough to register the quiet whoosh of the air conditioner and Winter’s slow, even breathing.

He’s in bed. In Avengers Tower. In New York. In 2015. He is not alone, and yet, he is more alone than he has been in over sixty-five years.

Winter is still asleep, oblivious to Bucky’s distress, and that is a whole different level of distressing. But the minutes tick by, and his heart rate settles back down. Winter’s breath is only barely audible in the quiet room. 

He realizes that he desperately needs to pee.

He tries to ignore it. He has no idea how long - Winter kept track of time. Winter kept track of everything outside of their body; Bucky kept track of their memories, of who they are.

His bladder might be about to explode.

It’s weird to have to worry about his bladder again after so many years.

It’s hard to even sit up with only one hand. He’s forgotten how to balance himself.

It takes a frustrating amount of flailing to get himself untangled from the blankets and semi-upright. When he moves to push himself the rest of the way to his feet, he’s brought up short by the realization that his hand is curled loosely in the edge of Winter’s shirt. He freezes, blinking at his own pale flesh, stark and almost luminescent in the low light against the dark fabric. After an indeterminate amount of time he catches himself and shakes his head; he’s just going to the bathroom. If he hasn’t woken Winter yet, Winter will still be right here fast asleep when he gets back. The sick, twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach is stupid.

He tells his fingers to release. They don’t.

It takes three more tries and an alarming trickle of heat between his legs before his hand will listen to him. From there he lurches into the bathroom, all unbalanced, uncoordinated urgency so fast that he barely remembers it.

He stands in front of the sink staring at his hand and trying to figure out how to wash it, when he realizes that it’s shaking in a fine but consistent tremor. His throat is tight and sweat has begun to break out along his hairline. He forgets about washing his hands. He’s halfway back to the bed, his heart pounding painfully hard as he stares at Winter’s half curled sleeping form, when his brain abruptly switches tracks long enough to wonder where the light is coming from.

It’s the door. The door is ajar, just a crack, but enough to let a thin line of light in to fall across the bed. Bucky’s memories of - well, the entire day, but particularly everything beyond sitting down to eat, are hazy at best, but he’s pretty sure Winter didn’t leave the door open. For all that Winter doesn’t believe in safety, and doesn’t trust the thin sense of security that has been starting to develop since their arrival at the Tower, he still would never pass up the opportunity to at least take advantage of the most protection he can procure. Winter definitely didn’t leave the door open.

The door is disconcertingly smooth to the touch, and pulls open with almost no effort at all. But the instant he’s pulled the door back enough to peer out into the living room the question of who left it open is answered immediately; Steve is laying on the couch in what is probably the world’s most uncomfortable position. The couch is both longer and deeper than average, so that if Steve were to stretch out he would still be able to fit his entire massive frame on it with reasonable comfort. Nevertheless, it’s such an endearingly familiar sight to see him curled and twisted up into an improbable position as though he’s trying to fit himself back into his old five foot two space. He’s mostly on his stomach, with one leg pulled up and jammed against the back of the couch in such a way that his knee is probably digging uncomfortably into his own spleen. The other leg is trailing over the side of the couch, while one hand flops limply over the armrest his head is snugged into and the other is clutching almost childishly at the back couch cushion.

Bucky’s breath goes out of him and his left shoulder slams into the doorframe so hard that it is both really painful and surprising that neither of the other two occupants of the apartment wake up. The only thing that saves Bucky from landing on his ass is the fact that his right hand is gripping the door hard enough to make the bones creak.

His chest is tight, like it’s been squeezed in a vise. Steve is snoring ever so slightly, and probably drooling all over the couch cushions, the low light of the lamp next to the couch turning his hair silver as it shines down on him like a halo. Bucky aches. He aches like his ribs are being spread apart and his organs rearranged - except that he actually knows what that feels like and this is somehow worse.

He could touch Steve. Not a muted, second hand sensation filtered through Winter’s perception. He could actually, directly, touch Steve. He could let go of the door and walk across the room and curl himself up in all that space on the couch left by Steve’s improbably small position; he could wrap himself up in Steve. For the first time in seventy years he could feel Steve’s skin; for the first time since before the war they could touch each other without restraint or caution-

The thought is thunder across his mind. But right on its heels follows the flash of lightning; searing and sickening.

He doesn't touch Steve. 

He lets go of the doorframe and hurries back across the room so fast that he nearly trips over his own uncoordinated feet. In his absence, Winter has rolled onto his side, metal hand reaching out across the empty half of the bed in a blind search and it is easy for Bucky to slip back into the warm bed underneath the arm and bury his face against Winter’s chest. He’s glad for the heap of blankets that Winter had insisted on loaded onto the bed, though they do nothing to still the shudders running down Bucky’s spine. He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his face into Winter’s metal shoulder hard enough to hurt and listens to the rhythmic beating of Winter’s heart until it drowns everything else out.


	7. Chapter 7

*****  
Chapter Five  
*****

When Steve wakes up, the door to the bedroom is firmly closed, but he isn’t alone. Natasha is seated cross legged on the coffee table munching on a pear. Steve can just see the outline of knives under the long sleeves of her sweater - a warning, though whether it’s meant for him or the Winter Soldier he isn’t sure.

Steve lets out an involuntary groan as he untwists himself to sit up on the couch and runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. 

“You look like shit,” she observes, sounding entirely too perky.

“Good morning to you too, Nat,” he mumbles, unable to keep the grumpiness out of his voice. “Make yourself at home. Eat whatever you want.”

 

She smirks, all hard edges and sharp teeth as she sucks pear juice off of her finger. “So, the assassin next door, what are you going to do about that?”

Her voice is too chipper, too casual, and Steve has to bury his face in his hands and grind the heels of his palms into his eyes before he can answer. “Hope he comes out and lets me feed him breakfast?”

The facade of cheerfulness drops off of her face and she leans forward. “Steve, we need to contain this. The Winter Soldier is _dangerous_.”

“I don’t think so.” Steve keeps his voice at a low hiss, uncomfortably aware that Winter, at least, has enhanced hearing. “And they are contained. They’re in a bedroom sleeping, how much more contained do you want?” She opens her mouth and he hastily cuts her off. “Don’t.”

She ignores him. “The Winter Soldier is unstable, and he knows how to play the long game.”

“He’s been here for months, and the only time he even got close to violence was when Tony deserved it.” Steve pushes himself to his feet; he has to stand, has to move. He can’t stop thinking about Bucky’s scarred face, about how he clung to Winter. 

Natasha’s lips purse and she unfolds her legs so that her feet are on the ground but she stays seated on the coffee table. Her eyes are steady as she watches Steve pace, careful and assessing. “I’m not saying the Soldier can’t be… brought around,” she says, voice almost pacifying. “But we have to take precautions. For Barnes’ sake if nothing else.”

“He won’t hurt Bucky,” Steve says, something he knows on a bone deep, instinctual level.

“He’s been complicit in Bucky’s captivity,” she points out, and if Steve didn’t know better he’d say her voice was gentle.

“That’s not-”

She stands, all lithe grace and contained impatience. “You can’t be sentimental about this,” she insists, moving forward to crowd into his space, just as stubborn as he is. Steve stops pacing to face her, his teeth grinding together and arms crossing defensively over his chest. “Don’t confuse your feelings for Barnes with the Winter Soldier, Steve. They aren’t the same person.”

“If it were you-” Steve starts, but she cuts him off ruthlessly.

“It _was_ me. Fury and Coulson had the sense to keep me in a cell for six months while they deprogrammed me.” The silence that follows her declaration is deafening, Steve and Natasha standing almost too close together as they stare each other down.

“You should go, Nat,” Steve says finally, voice hard though his stomach is twisted into a sickening knot.

She doesn’t move for another breath, staring at him unblinkingly. When she pulls away she turns on her heel and heads for the door, movements sharp and precise. “I hope you’re right,” she says over her shoulder, “I really do.”

When the door closes behind her, for a long minute it feels as though she’s taken all the air with her. Steve can’t move, his mind reeling with too much, too many angles, too many unknown factors to file down into strategic probability. 

Steve is jolted abruptly back into his body by the sound of the bedroom door opening. There’s an unsettling swoop in the pit of his stomach when he turns and sees the mussed hair and sharp eyes of the Winter Soldier. He stands in the doorway to the bedroom, blocking it completely as he stares at Steve, something defensive but also uncertain in his posture. 

Neither of them move for several minutes. Finally Steve takes a careful breath. “I meant it,” he says; because there’s no doubt in his mind that Winter overheard him and Natasha.

There’s a subtle shift, like a ripple across the surface of the metal arm, then Winter’s gaze drops down and away. “Bucky wants pancakes,” he says.

It isn’t funny, but the snort that forces its way out of Steve’s nose is mostly relief at the broken tension. “Pancakes it is,” he agrees.

 

******  
Bucky wakes for the second time to the sight of a pair of furrowed eyebrows taking up the entirety of his field of vision. There’s an unsettling twist in the pit of his stomach, a jolt like electricity through his body; he has to blink several times and instinctively jerks his head back. From nearly two inches away he can see more of Winter’s face, which is pinched and intensely focused on him.

“Winter?” he asks, though his voice cracks between the syllables and he has to clear his throat. “Something wrong?” His throat feels rough and sore, and it hurts to force the words out. There’s an involuntary twitch that travels down his shoulders into his thighs and he has to take a careful breath in an effort to settle himself. After so long of only being able to feel things secondhand filtered through Winter’s perception even just the weight of the blanket over his body is nearly overwhelming. But the fingers of Winter’s metal hand are wrapped around his wrist, tight enough that it should be painful except that it's oddly grounding.

“Your heart rate has been elevated thirty-six percent above acceptable baseline for the past eight minutes,” Winter reports, the low rumble of his voice reassuring.

“Huh.” Bucky shifts a little until his muscles stop twitching, his body settling deeper into the soft cushion of the bed.

“Do you require assistance?” Winter is still frowning, but not as deeply as before, and his grip on Bucky’s wrist has loosened. 

Bucky snorts, turning his face into the pillow and considers insisting they go back to sleep for a while longer. “No, I’m fine. Was probably dreaming or something,” he mumbles. The less overwhelming the sensory stimulation gets the better it feels to be cuddled up in a warm, soft bed - a sensation that felt like a long distant past even before he’d fallen from that damn train - and he scoots a little closer to revel in the gentle press of Winter’s skin against his own. “This is nice. Reminds me of being a kid, specially in the winter, snuggling up with Rebecca. Remember how Ma would yell at us for staying in bed so late? But then she’d make us breakfast - best damn flapjacks in the world.”

Winter shifts against him. He lets go of Bucky’s wrist but doesn’t pull away. They’re pressed close enough that Bucky can feel the warmth radiating off of him, can just feel the gentle puff of Winter’s breathing against his face. But it doesn’t quite feel like enough, and he reaches for Winter, his hand finding Winter’s waist, soft skin where Winter’s shirt has ridden up, familiar and reassuring in a way that doesn’t quite make sense but Bucky isn’t going to bother questioning. There’s a sort of tension in Winter’s body, an ever present readiness, hypervigilance perhaps. It’s a reminder that Winter has never, in his entire life, been able to relax, and it occurs to Bucky - abruptly, like a jolt - that now, maybe, he can do something about that. It’s sudden, and he doesn’t know what to do with the layers of meaning behind that thought yet, but his initial reaction to the shift in perspective makes it to his lips before he can catch himself.

“This is weird,” he says, and even though he’s whispering his own voice sounds unsettlingly loud in the close space between them. Winter blinks at him, head shifting on the pillow enough to be a tilt as the little furrow between his eyebrows makes a reappearance. “Being separated,” Bucky clarifies. “Being able to, you know, touch.” He emphasizes his words by curling his fingers around the curve of Winter’s hip and snuggling close enough to not quite press his nose against Winter’s neck. His mouth is doing something involuntarily, and it’s been so long that if feels weird for the muscles of his face to stretch into a small, lopsided smile, the pull of the scar across his lips distorting a little and adding a whole new level of novel sensation. “It’s kinda nice,” he mumbles. He suddenly feels strangely shy; for seventy years there’s been no secrets, no hiding from each other, but now Bucky hides his face against the warm skin of Winter’s neck and lets the steady pulse of Winter’s heart calm him, and it is technically the first time he’s ever done this - consciously, he has only the vaguest of memories of clinging to Winter in his initial panicked state after they’d been separated - nevertheless it feels like a worn, comfortable movement as though this easy form of asking for and receiving comfort has been imprinted on his very soul.

Winter takes a breath, his chest expanding enough to push against Bucky’s own, but whatever he had in mind to say Bucky will never know - which is a whole other layer of unsettling. The tension in Winter’s body increases, like a dog catching a scent, and while simultaneously pulling Bucky in closer he twists so that his attention is toward the door into the rest of the apartment.

It takes a minute, and Bucky has to strain a little, but he manages to catch the sound that had drawn Winter’s attention; it’s voices. One of them is Steve, the other it takes Bucky a minute to place, but then he remembers Romanov, beautiful and deadly with ever watchful eyes.

“-We have to take precautions. For Barnes’ sake if nothing else.” That’s Romanov, and it’s the use of his surname, as well as the distinctly manipulative note in her voice that allows Bucky to place her voice and settle it in his mind.

“He won’t hurt Bucky.” Steve, stubbornly loyal as ever. The sound of his voice sends a little shiver through Bucky, a confusing mix of excitement and anxiety.

“He’s been complicit in Bucky’s captivity.”

Winter’s breath catches like he’s been punched, but Bucky’s arm is already tightening around him, holding on in a way that is both clinging and protective. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he whispers, immediate and defensive, but Winter isn’t listening, still focused on the conversation outside of their room.

“That’s not-”

“You can’t be sentimental about this. Don’t confuse your feelings for Barnes with the Winter Soldier, Steve. They aren’t the same person.”

Winter is so still that it would be alarming if Bucky wasn’t still pressed close enough against him to feel the beat of his heart. He’s expecting Winter to jump up and storm out there, to tell Romanov how wrong she is, to defend himself- Bucky catches himself trying to will Winter to move, angry at his inability to move their body and use their voice to do it-

Bucky has his own body. Winter won’t. Winter only half understands that Steve and Romanov aren’t handlers who will shove him back into the chair of nightmares if he resists them. But Bucky _could_ , he could get up and go out there and yell at them, tell Romanov to shove it.

He’s so distracted, caught up in his internal revelation, that he almost misses Steve’s last attempt at wheedling.

“If it were you-” 

“It _was_ me. Fury and Coulson had the sense to keep me in a cell for six months while they deprogrammed me.” Her voice is brutal and sharp and makes Bucky lose all thoughts of going out there to confront her.

There’s a moment of absolute silence, both inside the bedroom and out in the living room. Both Bucky and Winter are tensed as though about to leap up from the bed - though likely with different purposes in mind - and it’s so quiet both of them are reflexively holding their breaths.

Maybe out in the living room Steve and Romanov are hold their breaths too, because Steve’s next words are preceded by a huge, slow sigh. “You should go, Nat.” He sounds… sad, disappointed, Bucky thinks, his mind trying to dredge up ancient comparisons except he’s not sure there are any. He’s not sure he’s ever heard Steve give up on an argument like that before.

There’s more silence, and Bucky thinks that Romanov has left without a word. Winter, evidently is following a different track because his hand is reaching for the knife stashed under his pillow.

“I hope you’re right. I really do.” Romanov’s parting words are so soft that Bucky can just barely hear them, but they make both Bucky and Winter jump all the same.

They stare at each other, both of their eyes wide in the low light, both anxious and uncertain. “I told you we can trust Steve,” Bucky whispers. His stomach is twisting and writhing, and there’s a bone deep weariness weighing his body down to the bed. He wonders if he’ll be able to convince Winter to just stay put, to let them hide under warm blankets and soft pillows for whatever indeterminable amount of time it takes for things - anything - to feel normal and okay again.

But Winter is already moving, disentangling himself from the blankets and heading for the door. He has the knife in his flesh hand, but it’s held low at his side and when he opens the bedroom door he angles his body so that it’s hidden behind the shield of the door.

Bucky curls up tighter in the bed, feeling small and vulnerable now that he’s alone in it. A part of him thinks that he should get up and go after Winter, either to back whatever play he’s intending or to caution him against stabbing Steve. He doesn’t do either, can’t make himself move other than to pull the blankets up over his head and squeeze his eyes tightly shut. Dimly, he half hears Steve say something about pancakes, but he can’t make himself process the words fully and then Winter is back, kneeling on the edge of the bed and prying back the covers enough to look down at Bucky worriedly.

“You need to eat,” Winter says, and as he says it Bucky becomes aware of its truth. 

His stomach emit a low gurgle, the hollow, empty feeling of it so familiar he’d been inclined toward ignoring it. Except he’s not in some hell hole cell in the back end of Siberia, and there is a kitchen full of food not twenty feet away. He has woken up from a good night sleep, in a warm bed. No one is coming to beat him, or give him orders - that’s a hard thought to push away, even harder to believe, but he manages it. He takes a deep breath and pushes himself up, momentarily thrown off yet again by the imbalance of only having one hand. He can sit up. He can get out of the bed. There is a whole closet of clothes and he can go select a new set and put them on. There’s a bathroom where he can take a piss, brush his teeth, wash his face. Normal people things, he can do that.

It’s surprisingly easy, once he gets moving. There are little things that throw him off - the unfamiliar fit of the pants, the startlingly loud high-flow flush of the toilet, the smooth plastic of the toothbrush - but the routine he follows, modified though it is, is so old, so easy and familiar that he doesn’t have to think about it as he moves.

Guiding Winter through the same process is a little trickier. Winter never had to worry about personal hygiene before; most of the time it was neglected entirely, and when it wasn’t he had some impatient handler hovering over his shoulder barking orders. Bucky doesn’t give orders, but he nudges and prompts and he isn’t without practice. Ultimately, it isn’t all that different from what he’s been doing for the past couple of months since they’d first come to the Tower, only now he can physically nudge Winter along instead of just telling him how to fake it.

It’s almost too easy, up until Bucky trails Winter out of the bedroom and he stops dead, his legs refusing to move another inch. It’s the same heady, lightning-in-his-veins, vise-squeezing-his-lungs sensation from the night before, only so much worse.

It’s the first time he’s really been face to face with Steve in over seventy years. He knows Steve was there the day before; he thinks maybe they spoke a little? But everything from yesterday is an overwhelming haze of pain and confusion, and seeing Steve fast asleep in the middle of the night, unsettling though it was, is nothing to seeing Steve standing there in the soft morning light staring right back at him. 

It’s just Steve, rationally he knows that. Steve who’d once skinned his knees and given himself an asthma attack trying to escape from what turned out to be an overly enthusiastic puppy, who’d spent three hours trying to pitch his first tent and then tried to spend the night out in the open despite the freezing cold when he couldn’t get it. Steve who could snore like a chainsaw and loves the worst jokes. Steve, who is standing next to the kitchen table looking like a dope. He’s holding a spatula in one hand and a plate of pancakes in the other, and wearing a ridiculous plaid apron that doesn’t even come close to covering the entire broad expanse of his chest.

It’s stupid, but Bucky can’t make himself move, can’t focus around the the hollow twist in his stomach and the distant buzzing in his ears. Vaguely he’s aware that Steve isn’t moving either, holding almost perfectly still and watching Bucky with a wary but almost hopeful expression.

“Morning, Buck,” he says, and his voice is low and cautious, like Bucky might spook - which, in fairness, Bucky _is_ pretty spooked. “Uh, you hungry?” Steve is being so careful, and trying so hard, and Bucky isn’t surprised because Steve has been tiptoeing around them for months, but that doesn’t make Bucky hate it any less.

He has to swallow hard, but he manages to get his body moving again. His knees are shaking but through sheer force of will he manages to stay up, to move forward. It feels stupidly monumental to reach out and take the plate from Steve’s hand. Their fingers brush along the edge of the warm china and it’s like being struck by lightning; for a moment Bucky’s heart stops and his fingers go lax and the plate hits the tile with a crash.

Three things happen in the two seconds following the shattering of the plate - Bucky startles so sharply he nearly falls over, Steve swears around an apology, and Winter abruptly shoulders his way in between them, putting himself bodily in front of Bucky. Bucky can only stand there, panting and shaking, while Winter and Steve both drop to their knees to clean up the mess, managing to smack their skulls together on the way down. Winter’s posture is submissive and pacifying, while Steve continues to hastily apologize as though _he’d_ done something wrong.

Abruptly the world around him starts to gray out and Bucky ends up sitting down hard in the nearest chair, his single hand clenched in his lap in a halfhearted attempt to stop it from shaking.There's static in his brain. His lungs won't inflate right and he has to focus on calming the racing beat of his heart. By the time he can process what’s going on around him again the mess is cleaned up, Steve is scooping more pancakes out of the pan, and Winter is crouching in front of Bucky, staring at him from only about three inches away and scowling. His metal hand is resting on Bucky's knee, a heavy, reassuring weight. 

“Situation contained,” Winter reports gravely. “There will be no discipline.” Over by the stove, Steve makes a strangled squawking sound, but Bucky just finds himself smiling a little. He reaches out to cover Winter’s hand with his own. 

“I'm okay,” he tells Winter, because Winter is still looking worried and even though Bucky isn't entirely sure he actually _is_ okay, Winter worries far too much. “Sorry ‘bout the plate, Steve,” he adds, and he probably doesn't sound as casual as he means to because he can't seem to make himself look up from his knees. 

“No problem,” Steve says, doing a slightly better job of sounding nonchalant. His voice is moving closer and Bucky just barely manages not to jump when another plate lands on the table next to him. “We've got plenty of them.” 

With some effort Bucky manages to make himself let go of Winter’s hand and nudge him into the next chair. Steve has cooked a pretty impressive stack of pancakes, and even though they're a little lopsided and burnt around the edges they smell just like his Ma’s. That makes it easier to accept a plate, to pick up his fork, to start eating. And by the third pancake he can even look at Steve again - not for long, and not meeting Steve’s gaze, but he can look in Steve’s direction, watch him subtly. 

Winter is hunched over his plate, shoveling pancakes into his mouth with a subdued urgency. Steve is fidgeting consistently on his chair, only half paying attention eating while he stares at Bucky between bites. 

The silence feels heavy, like a physical thing pressing against him, and Bucky can only tolerate it for so long. “So, how… how did you sleep?” He asks, hating how soft and shaky his voice sounds but it's better than nothing. 

“Fine, uh, great,” Steve says, a little too quickly and around a mouthful of pancakes. “I mean, okay. You?”

Bucky's throat tightens and he just shrugs. He has to stare down at his half empty plate, unable to look up. 

The silence descends again, even more awkward than before. Bucky can only stare at the table. He suddenly feels too big, and uncomfortably exposed. If he could make himself move he'd probably make a dash for the bed to hide under the covers like a little kid again - it's stupid, and he's pretty sure Steve is staring down at his own plate just as awkwardly, but he feels like he's pinned down under a microscope about to be dissected. 

He's so lost in his internal spiral of discomfort that he actually almost forgets about Winter. Until Winter stands so abruptly his chair falls over with a crash. Winter swears in Russian, low and harsh, his attention directed toward the window, but then he's shoving his way around the table and running for the stairwell. 

Steve startles almost as much as Bucky does, and they both move in tandem to peer out of the large window Winter had been sitting next to; they are three stories above the large terrace that also serves as a landing pad for the flying members of the team. Except currently there's one of Stark’s small jets idling on the flat surface. Barton is halfway across the terrace toward the jet with a young woman in red and young man in blue in tow. 

Steve swears and then he's pelting for the stairwell after Winter. Bucky stands there for a moment longer, staring in confusion. He feels vaguely like he should recognize the two people with Barton, something niggling uncomfortably in the back of his mind… 

Red. A red mist and then overwhelming pain. 

His body is moving before he's consciously aware of it. He pelts down the stairs and it's like his legs can't quite keep up. He nearly trips several times, his headlong momentum threatening to send him rolling to the bottom of the stairs. One time he slips an alarming three steps before he can regain his balance because he tried to catch himself with the arm that isn't there any more. By the time he reaches the spacious, open living room space of the common floor the landing pad is attached to, his lungs are burning and there are dark spots dancing in front of his vision. 

But there isn't time to stop. Through the wide glass wall out onto the landing pad he sees Winter hit the ground hard, a blue blur circling around him. Steve is slamming his way through the doors out onto the terrace, pelting headlong toward the two.

Bucky makes it as far as the doorway onto the terrace but then he has to stop and cling to the doorframe to prevent himself from falling over. The blue blur has slowed down enough to become the young man Bucky had seen through the window; he’s scowling and shouting something at Winter in a foreign language. Winter rolls quickly to his feet, his arm shifting and expanding in preparation for a fight. Barton is running back toward them, leaving the woman in red standing next to the jet. Winter, Steve, Barton, and the young man are a messy tangle of shouting and waving arms as Steve and Barton try to insert themselves between the other two. The woman in red, however, is nearly motionless, only a slight sway moving her slim form. Her face is pale behind her long hair, her eyes dark, bruised circles and her fingers pressed over her face.

It’s unsettling. The sight of her makes something inside of Bucky twist and shake with the memory of pain and terror, but at the same time he feels strangely guilty. There’s no red mist around her this time, though as Winter takes a swing at the young man she takes a step forward and there’s the faintest pink glow around her fingertips.

“Cut it out! Pietro, I swear to god!” Barton shouts, sounding like he’s a wit’s end. He keeps trying to grab the back of the young man’s - Pietro, apparently - shirt, but faster than Bucky’s eye can track Pietro becomes a blur and reappears behind Winter. Steve, stubbornly trying to stand in between Winter and Pietro is caught in the middle of a whirlwind of flailing limbs and shouts in a variety of languages. 

Eventually Winter manages to shove past all three of them and heads straight for the woman with the purposeful stride that usually means danger for his target. “She cannot leave,” Winter snarls.

In the blink of an eye Pietro is back in front of him, arresting Winter’s forward momentum with a hand on his chest that shoves him backwards into Steve, knocking them both to the ground. “You will not go near her!” Pietro yells, venom in his voice. “You have already done enough!”

It isn't going to end. Steve has his arm around Winter’s chest, straining to hold him back, while Winter stubbornly tries to pull away; Barton is doing the same with Pietro, with equally limited success. Winter could kill the younger man if Steve loses his grip and the woman in red still hasn't moved. 

Bucky's vision is blurring out around the edges, his blood rushing in his ears. “Enough!” He shouts. It's impulsive and everyone on the terrace - himself included - startles at the sudden, harsh sound. 

He doesn't get to see what happens next, though. Between one moment and the next his hand slips from the doorframe he was holding on to and his vision goes completely black. 

He's unconscious before he hits the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final three chapters will be up tomorrow!


	8. Chapter 8

******  
Chapter Six  
*****

It happens so fast.

It’s possible none of them even would have noticed right away had Bucky’s shout not just drawn all of their attention to him. There is a moment of frozen silence as Bucky’s hand slips from the doorframe and he collapses to the ground.

Then chaos breaks loose.

Winter wrenches himself from Steve’s slack grip, though Steve barely notices because they’re both hurtling as fast as they can toward Bucky. They make it at the same time, dropping to their knees. Winter goes for Bucky’s neck but Steve manages to grasp Bucky’s wrist; his pulse is fast, too fast, Bucky’s face stark and pale except for the dark bruises around his eyes. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, his breath a ragged whistling sound through his mouth, his eyes behind his closed eyelids moving rapidly.

Distantly Steve is aware of others moving around him. JARVIS says something about medics, Clint shouts something about the jet, Winter is calling Bucky’s name over and over to no response. Winter is cradling Bucky’s head in his lap, one hand still on the pulse in his throat and the other feeling through his hair.

Steve can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t let go of Bucky’s wrist or stop staring at his face. But then the medics arrive and Steve has never been so relieved. It’s instinct to move away, to pull Winter with him, to make room for the medics to take care of Bucky. Winter hardly seems to notice Steve pulling on him except to shoot Steve a confused, irritated glance over his shoulder. The medics have a gurney and it only takes seconds for them to shift Bucky onto it.

It will be alright, Steve tells himself. Bucky is unconscious, but he’s alive, he’s breathing. The medics will take care of him, they’ll find out what went wrong and fix it. Everything will be fine. Steve still has an arm around Winter and he gives in to Winter’s forward momentum, prepared to follow the medics as they wheel the gurney away.

But Clint gets there first. Suddenly he’s got his arms around Winter too. He’s shouting in Steve’s ear, something about stopping him, “Pietro block the door.” And Pietro’s in the doorway, vibrating with contained energy. They’re all focused on Winter.

That’s when Steve processes the sound Winter is making. It’s low at first, like the build of a jet engine, but it grows quickly and then it’s a _roar_. A wordless, deafening, animal shriek.

Steve can _feel_ the metal arm getting bigger under his grip. Steve tightens his arms around Winter instinctively, but gets a metal elbow in the ribs for his effort. Winter breaks loose, barreling past Pietro and sending him flying without breaking stride. Clint throws something that hits Winter square in the back, sticking to his shirt and making him stumble three steps but then he’s hurtling forward again. He makes it to the stairwell door and it’s left swinging behind him.

Steve is moving. He doesn’t remember starting to move, but he is. He makes it across the common room and slams through the stairwell door hard enough to bend the hinges. Winter is just barely in sight at the bottom of the flight.

They make it to the medical floor. Winter is momentarily stymied by the security lock on the door, buying Steve the seconds he needs to catch up and Steve’s flying tackle launches them both through the door and several feet down the next hallway. They end up locked in a rolling grapple, momentum sending them pinging against one wall and then the next.

Steve just manages to get Winter pinned, the full weight of his body over Winter’s hips and one arm pressing against Winter’s throat. He’s speaking, a torrent of nonsensical reassurances flooding out of his mouth. He’s telling Winter it will be okay, that the medics well help, will fix Bucky. Winter is swearing at him in low, vicious Russian. He just has to keep Winter down, keep him from doing something stupid long enough for Winter to calm down.

Except there’s a knife in Winter’s hand.

Steve dodges the first wild swipe on instinct and it’s enough for Winter to get a leg up. Winter plants his foot in the middle of Steve chest and kicks hard enough for Steve’s back to slam into the ceiling above before he crashes back to the carpet. 

As soon as he recovers Steve tries to make another lunge for Winter, aiming for his knees, but he’s too late. Winter’s almost made it to the door into the medical suite when Clint drops out of the nearest vent and hits him with a net arrow. The net successfully tangles around Winter’s legs and Winter hits the ground hard. He rolls, metal hand ripping through the netting in seconds but it’s enough for Clint to get one magnetic cuff around his flesh wrist and activate it. 

Winter isn’t swearing any more, he isn’t making words at all; it’s just an endless stream of guttural, animal sounds as he struggles against the cuffs. He’s produced another knife from somewhere and swipes at Clint, catching him in the thigh. While Clint swears and stumbles back Winter snaps the cuff around his wrist and lurches back to his feet.

Steve doesn’t have his shield, he doesn’t have weapons, he’s still wearing the clothes he slept in the night before; hell, he isn’t even wearing shoes. It doesn’t matter. Restraint isn’t going to work. Winter’s face is wild, his eyes unfocused in panic. It’s almost like the expression Steve had seen during the fight on the helicarrier - desperation and rage - except somehow worse. There’s no uncertainty this time, no hesitation that made Winter’s movements jerky and disconnected on the helicarrier, but also he’s also missing the controlled, fluid grace he’d had during their fight on the bridge. He’s a maelstrom, an uncontained mass of rapid movement and blunt force.

Steve manages to throw him back against the wall, landing a solid punch to Winter’s solar plexus. He’s pulling his punches - he has to, he can’t forget the way Bucky clung to Winter, the vulnerability in Winter’s stubborn protectiveness. He manages to block Winter’s retaliation blows, the force shuddering all the way through his bones. He kicks out at Winter’s knee, but Winter’s fist makes it through his guard and as his head snaps back Steve’s fairly certain he feels his cheekbone fracture again. Before Steve can recover Winter’s knee slams into the pressure point on the inside of Steve’s thigh and when Steve starts to double over one fist hits his sternum and other slams into the underside of his chin in rapid succession. 

Steve doesn’t want to know what will happen if Winter makes it through those doors, but he knows it will be bad. Winter has a knife in each hand now and a part of Steve’s brain is flashing forward to blood soaked walls and lifeless bodies-

There’s a familiar buzzing-crackling. Steve has no idea where Natasha came from, but between one blink and the next her legs are wrapped around Winter’s waist and one of her Widow’s Bites is digging into the side of Winter’s neck with the other against his cheek. Winter screams, his whole body spasming, and by the time Natasha let’s go Winter slumps to the ground in a boneless sprawl. Natasha wastes no time in pulling out a set of restraints nearly three inches thick that cover the entire length of Winter’s forearms.

Steve pulls himself to his feet, ignoring the stab of probably broken ribs and the throb of his fractured cheekbone. “Don’t hurt him,” he says stupidly, his mouth a full fifteen seconds ahead of his brain. Natasha gives him a hard look and goes back to securing the cuffs on Winter’s arms.

Before Steve can say anything else stupid Sam comes out of the medical suite doors. He stops, surveying the scene in front of him; Natasha half lifting the cuffed and still unconscious Winter off of the floor, Clint sitting against the wall holding his bleeding thigh and muttering grumpily, and Steve standing in the middle of it blinking stupidly while he cheek swells up to three times its normal size. “Bucky’s awake,” Sam says, visibly compartmentalizing everything else in the room to focus on Steve. “We could use your help keeping him calm.”

“Sure, yeah,” Steve says immediately, moving forward to follow Sam. He catches himself, hesitating as he looks back at Winter-

“I’ll keep him contained,” Natasha says. She doesn’t actually roll her eyes, but it’s there in her tone. “He won’t be hurt.”

Steve’s stomach is a mess of tangled tension and nausea that has nothing to do with being hit repeatedly in the stomach, but he nods and leaves her to it.

The other side of the door is comparatively quiet. With the echoes of Winter’s screams still ringing in Steve’s head, the sterile calm of the medical suite is almost eerie. Like most of the labs, it's mostly a big open room, with various work surfaces and equipment sectioning pieces off. One of the medical staff is off to one side, doing something with a centrifuge and some vials of blood, two more are standing around one of Tony’s holographic interfaces, poking at charts and diagrams and muttering to each other. But Steve hardly notices any of them, his attention drawn entirely to the examination table in the center of the room. 

Sitting up on the edge of the table is Bucky. His back is to the doorway, but he turns to look when Steve and Sam come in, though there’s something vacant in his expression and Steve can’t be sure Bucky is actually seeing him. Bruce is standing beside the table fussing with the IV in Bucky’s arm, but he glances up long enough to offer Steve a tense smile. At first glance Bucky looks okay; he’s sitting up on his own, his eyes following the various people in the room and his head half inclined toward Bruce as though listening, but when Steve comes around beside him he’s hit with an overwhelming sense of wrongness. It isn’t just the still unfamiliar scars marking Bucky’s face, or the gap where his left arm used to be - it’s the vacancy in his expression, the way his shoulders are hunched up nearly to his ears, his whole body curled inward and slightly forward. His gaze isn’t following the people in the room, it’s flicking restlessly all over, and his singular hand is clenched in his lap so tightly that it’s shaking.

“Hey,” Steve says. He wants to reach out and take Bucky’s hand, aches to reassure him, but suddenly he’s hit more than ever that he doesn’t know this Bucky, this Bucky who has suffered for longer than Steve has consciously been alive.

But Bucky looks at him again, and this time his eyes focus and his face loosens in an expression of relief. “Where’s Winter?” he asks.

It stops Steve dead, his throat closing over. The evidence of the fight must be a swollen mess all over his face but Bucky doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes darting away and around the room again almost as soon as he’s finished saying the words.

Luckily, Steve is saved from answering by another member of the medical staff entering. She pulls Bruce aside, conferring with him quietly until Bruce nods and comes back over. Steve can’t quite pay full attention to what Bruce is saying; he’s too busy watching Bucky, watching every minute twitch and shift. Bruce says something about a CT scan and Bucky’s eyebrows furrow in a confused frown. Sam steps up and between him and Bruce they explain the process, the purpose, and give a variety of assurances that it will be painless and noninvasive until Bucky’s face smooths out again and he nods distantly.

The staff starts buzzing around in preparations but Sam is giving Steve a pointed look around Bucky. Bucky has gone back to not paying attention, his eyes tracking the movement of the people around him without seeming to actually process any of it. He doesn’t seem to notice at all when Sam leans into Steve’s space and murmurs, “consent is a little shaky here.”

It takes Steve a minute but he nods grimly. Whatever paperwork Coulson and Tony’s lawyers had drawn up when they’d first brought Bucky - and Winter - in technically lists Steve as their medical proxy, for lack of another option. Steve leans in, resting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder to draw his attention. “Are you sure?” he asks.

Bucky blinks at him, glances around the room again, then looks back to Steve. “Yeah,” he says, voice little more than a mumble. “I’m fine.”

And it is fine, at first. They hand Steve a lead lined apron and say he can stay with Bucky throughout the procedure. Bucky stays in the same state of disoriented disassociation, though Steve keeps a hand on him and he relaxes slightly every time he glances Steve’s way.

Except then they enter the room and Bucky gets a look at the massive circular machine that takes up the bulk of the space. He lashes out before anyone can brace for it - his aim is off and his knuckles just glance off of Bruce’s chin, but it's enough to make Bruce jerk back. Bucky makes it halfway off of the gurney before Steve can catch him. It’s shockingly different from trying to hold Winter back; where Winter had been a cyclone of strength and energy, Bucky barely resists Steve’s hold. He’s so much thinner than Winter and Steve can feel Bucky’s shoulder blades digging into him, can feel the fine tremor running through Bucky’s body, the rapid, uneven flutter of Bucky’s heart.

It’s easy enough to push Bucky back down onto the gurney, though Steve hesitates to actually pin him down. Steve has to cup both hands around Bucky’s face, blocking everything but Steve’s own face from his vision to get him to even begin to calm down, but even after twenty minutes of reassurance Bucky won’t go anywhere near the machine.

Eventually Bruce suggests a sedative. He talks through all of the possible effects and ramifications, assures them that it should be mild, just enough to calm Bucky down, maybe allow him to just go to sleep until the whole thing is over. Bucky nods and says “please” with a sort of desperation that makes Steve nauseous all over again, and maybe Steve’s a coward but he can’t take the wild eyed fear radiating out from Bucky any more so he nods in confirmation and holds Bucky’s hand while Bruce prepares the sedative.

Within minutes Bucky is out. His heart rate stays high, but evens out and his whole body goes limp. Steve stays with him throughout the scan, but Bucky doesn’t wake up, doesn’t so much as twitch. When it’s done Sam suggests that they let him sleep and they settle him into a bed in a smaller, private room while the flurry of doctors on Tony’s payroll retreat to their offices to study the test results and argue over theories.

Steve stares at Bucky - looking so small and fragile in the hospital-style bed - and feels exhaustion settle over his bones. Suddenly he actually feels ninety years old and like he could sleep for a month. He tells himself that Bucky will be okay, that the best doctors in the world are on it, with Bruce and JARVIS running herd. It will be okay.

Unfortunately, Bucky isn’t the only one that Steve has to worry about.

Steve doesn’t have to ask JARVIS to know where to look. Tony insists that the room is designed for - intentionally - explosive experiments, but there’s a note on the schematic indicating that it’s Hulk proof which no one missed. It’s plain, little more than a transparent cube made out of something much stronger than bulletproof glass set in the center of a mostly unused lab space in between the floors that house Tony and Bruce’s primary labs.

On the lab bench nearest the door, Natasha has laid out an array of knives, a homemade garrote, and two small guns that she’d confiscated from Winter; it’s not the same set of weapons that they’d taken off of him when he first arrived at the Tower, but Steve doesn’t have the energy to worry about where and how Winter had acquired them right now. 

Natasha herself is standing just in front of the bench, her arms crossed over her chest, her face impassive as she stares at the transparent cube in the middle of the room. 

“How is he?” Steve asks, moving up to stand beside her. He can’t quite bring himself to look at the cube - cell, it’s a cell, he has to admit that at least to himself - so he focuses on the table of weapons, and then Natasha’s profile instead.

Her lips are pressed into a thin line and one long finger is tapping slowly against her bicep. “He threw a fit when he first woke up. Tried to break out. But it didn’t last long and he’s been calm ever since.”

“Calm,” Steve repeats, and he’s almost surprised that the acidity of his sarcasm doesn’t burn his mouth on the way out.

Her mouth twitches into an almost smile. “Quiet,” she corrects herself. “Still.” 

Steve stands beside her, leaning back against the workbench and mirroring her position by crossing his own arms. “I guess we were both right,” he says, and maybe his mouth is burning a little, it certainly feels tight and sour. It’s barely afternoon and yet he almost can’t remember waking up, the exhaustion so heavy in his bones.

“He would have killed all of us to get to Barnes,” she says. From anyone else, it might have been an _I told you so_ , but that’s not quite the right inflection in her voice.

Steve desperately wants to deny it, to insist that it wouldn’t have gone that far, but there’s a smear of Clint’s blood across Winter’s shirt that says otherwise. And now that Steve’s made the mistake of actually _looking_ at Winter he can’t look away. After the frenzied chaos in the hallway before, the sterility of the cell is jarring, wrong even. Winter is an unmoving pillar in the center, on his knees with his still cuffed hands in his lap; the flesh hand is clenched tight into a fist but the metal hand is stuck in a loose half curl thanks to the power-disrupting-something-or-other that Tony installed in the cuffs. He can’t see Winter’s face with the loose tangle of his hair covering it, but there’s tension in every line of his body. Except it’s not the tension Steve is used to seeing - and he really hates the fact that there is a kind of tension that he is _used_ to seeing, that he has seen Winter, even before he knew the difference between Winter and Bucky, sit in tense, anxious silence enough times to know it and know that this is different.

“You can go back to Bucky if you want. I'll keep an eye on him.” Natasha’s voice is too casual, and she dips her head toward the cell in indication.

Steve shakes his head; he ignores the way the overworked muscle in his jaw jumps, but he’s sure that Natasha sees it. “Bruce said Bucky’ll be asleep for awhile yet,” he says. “Besides, I… need to deal with this.” He doesn’t believe that Natasha misses the crack in his voice either, but she’s kind enough not to comment on it.

She shrugs and pushes herself away from the table. “Be careful,” she says, though from her tone she might as well be warning him about oncoming rain. “I may have underestimated him.” She crosses in front of Steve, heading for the door with tight, graceful steps. Steve’s eyes track her automatically and he can just see her still in his periphery when she pauses on the other side of the table. Her face remains smooth and blank, but there’s a distant cast to her expression as she reaches out to delicately finger a small thin knife that might have originally been hers. “You know,” she says, somehow both absent and contemplative, her eyes still on the knife, “when it was me, it helped. To have a mission. Something to focus on.” Her lips twitch, like she might say something more, but instead she just sets the knife back in its place, turns on her heel, and leaves without looking back.

Steve watches her go until the door has closed behind her, because it’s easier than what he knows he’ll have to do next. A part of him wants to call her back, wants to beg her to stay, to help, to tell him something, anything he can do to fix this. But this isn’t her mess, and he can’t stall forever.

When he looks back to the cell Winter hasn’t moved; Steve has to stare at him for a full minute to even be certain that Winter is breathing. Steve pushes himself away from the table without letting himself think about it, his body moving on autopilot as he crosses the room to the cell, types his override code into the lockpad, and lets the door close behind him. Winter still doesn’t move, except for the slightest twitch which might be him lifting his head the faction necessary to watch Steve through the curtain of his hair. Steve just catches a glimpse of his mouth, lips pressed thin and the lower one just barely sucked in enough that Winter is undeniably biting it.

Steve sits down. It’s more of a slide, really; whatever material the cell is made of is as smooth and cool as glass against his back and the cement floor is hard when his ass hits it. He keeps his legs curled up against his chest and he can’t help staring over his knees at his own stupidly bare toes - all day, everything that happened, and he hadn’t even noticed that he’d never remembered to put on shoes. The realization makes a bubble of hysteria rise in his chest and he isn’t sure whether he’s going to laugh or cry but he tramps down hard on both urges. 

The feeling vanishes when he looks back up at Winter again and the exhaustion is back, more effective than any restraints that have been used against him since he’d stepped out of the rebirth chamber. 

“He’s going to be okay,” Steve says. Maybe Natasha has been keeping Winter updated, but Steve doubts it and he feels a nauseating twist of guilt at not saying something sooner. “They don’t know exactly what went wrong yet, but he’s okay and sleeping now.”

Winter sags; he’d already been tightly hunched and curled, but this is like all of his strings have been cut and he can barely hold his own weight. Winter’s breath goes out of him audibly and it almost, _almost_ sounds like a sob.

It strikes Steve, suddenly, why Winter’s posture feels so sickeningly wrong; it’s not the first time he’s seen Winter, for lack of a better term, submissive. He’d done a version of it just this morning when Bucky broke the plate, done it a few months ago after he’d lashed out at Tony, all through his interrogation with Coulson and Maria, and when they’d first found him, first brought him to the Tower-

“Why did you let us bring you here?” Steve hadn’t planned to speak and the question startles them both. Winter’s head jerks half up, just for a second before he goes back to staring at the floor, and that only confirms Steve’s suspicion. “To the Tower, I mean,” he clarifies. He realizes distractedly that his own fingers are digging into the fabric of his sweatpants, on the verge of ripping holes in them and he forces himself to take a deep breath.

He doesn’t want to remember that night. He doesn’t want to think about the sight of Bucky - he hadn’t known about Winter then, but either way he doesn’t feel any better about it - kneeling in the mud and the rain, seeping blood. He’d looked so small, so broken, and so very afraid. But through all of that, even when he’d been literally on the verge of death, he’d never kept his head bowed, not once. Right up until the moment when his eyes had rolled back and he collapsed unconscious into the mud he’d kept his gaze vacant but forward, staring past Steve into a distant nothing; submissive, but still somehow defiant. 

There’s no defiance in Winter now. Steve was right to correct Natasha earlier - Winter isn’t calm, but he isn’t waiting either, isn’t bidding his time like Natasha had implied. He looks like he’s given up.

Steve can’t stop staring at him now. Thousands of images, memories, are flashing through his mind at rapid speed; Azzano, in the woods after, Bucky falling, that horrible mask falling off on the bridge, the helicarriers, surrendering in the mud, bleeding in the mud, the past several months in the Tower. Every time Winter flinched away from him, every time Winter wouldn’t meet his eyes. Winter crouching in front of Bucky’s newly shaped body like he’ll tear apart anyone who approaches, Bucky clinging to Winter like he’s still falling, Winter’s absolute panic went Bucky passed out.

“You went to Camp Lehigh, you had to know we- I’d be keeping an eye on it. You were waiting, for me.” The words just keep coming and Steve can’t stop them. Maybe he’s too tired, or maybe he’s just desperate to get some response out of Winter. “Why? Why did you do it?”

Winter shifts, just a little, his flesh hand curling and uncurling and Steve can just see his eyebrows knitting together through the curtain of his hair. “Bucky said… it would be better,” he says, his voice slow like it takes effort to drag the words out of some great depth. “I was hurt-”

Steve snorts; he can’t help it. “You had six bullets in you,” he says, even though he instantly regrets interrupting. “You spent two weeks half dead in medical once we got you back here.”

Winter is silent for a moment and Steve watches the outline of his lips move without sound before Winter continues. “I would have failed-... the next fight-” he breaks off, swallows hard. “Bucky convinced me that you would be a better handler than HYDRA.”

Steve absorbs that blow with a clenched jaw, though he has to close his eyes for a moment and breathe through it. “Do you regret it?” he asks with his eyes still closed. He doesn’t want to see Winter’s face if he says yes, clinging to the fragile illusion that by not looking it won’t hurt as much to hear.

But Winter doesn’t answer. The silence hangs heavy and palpable in the air between them and Steve’s ass is falling asleep on the cold, hard cement. He sighs and lets his head thunk back against the smooth wall, half contemplating just laying down and taking a quick nap where he is.

“What happened today,” he says finally, when he’s sure he has complete control over his own voice, “that can’t happen again. We- _I_ want to help you, Winter, you and Bucky both. But I can’t do that if you keep pulling this kind of shit.”

“It would not have happened if the witch put us back together the way we belong,” Winter retorts, with possibly the most inflection Steve has ever heard from him, all mulishness, bordering on a complaint.

“That is a conversation for another day.” Steve can’t help but to groan a little. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy, bringing Bucky home, helping him heal; he may not have expected the double trouble of dealing with two of them, but that doesn’t change Steve’s determination at all - no matter how tired he is. “Look, Winter, I’m not asking you to trust me. I get it if you can’t, and I definitely don’t blame you after… everything. Just… you trust Bucky, don’t you?”

There’s no pause this time. “Yes.”

“So maybe let’s start from there and try to work things out?” Steve feels incredibly stupid, sitting there in his pajamas and bare feet, his only plan one that amounts to, in its entirely, _hope for the best_. “Can you work with me on this? Just give me a chance, please.”

It takes a nerve-wrackingly long time for Winter to respond, so long that Steve almost, almost gives up and leaves. But finally Winter straightens, just a little, just enough to shake his hair back from his face and meet Steve’s eyes. “Can I see him?” he asks, and even though his voice is still soft and submissive, Steve knows it’s a test.

He takes a slow, careful breath, trying not to let himself be overwhelmed by relief. “Are you gonna make a scene again?” he asks, and maybe it’s wrong to make light of the situation but the tension has to break somehow.

Luckily, Steve didn’t actually expect an answer because Winter just gives him a flat look. Steve snorts softly and shakes his head before pushing himself to his feet with a low groan. “Alright,” he says, “enough moping. Let’s go.” He crosses the small cell to stand in front of Winter and holds out his hand in silent offer.

Maybe he’s pushing it too far, maybe that one gesture will shatter the fragile truce he’s just managed to negotiate; but in all practicality, Winter’s been kneeling on his legs for at least two hours now and no matter how badass he is he probably physically can’t stand up on his own at this point.

It takes several minutes of wary glowering, but slowly Winter lifts both hands and lets Steve pull him up. He stumbles as he gains his feet and Steve stays still, catching and supporting him without invading Winter’s space any more than absolutely necessary. But just as Steve’s about to pull away Winter’s hand clenches painfully around his arm and stops him short.

“Bucky was right,” Winter says. He doesn’t quite look at Steve, his head tilted down as though he’s looking at their joined hands. They’re standing close enough that Steve can feel the heat radiating off of Winter’s body, the heavy press of the metal arm against his own arm, can see the beating pulse in Winter’s neck. “Bucky’s always right.”

Steve laughs, just a little, and suddenly he doesn’t feel quite as tired any more.


	9. Chapter 9

******  
Chapter Seven  
*****

“Winter?” Bucky’s voice sounds normal; soft and concerned, exactly like the Asset has heard it hundreds of times before. The difference is that most of those times Bucky was settled away where pain and suffering could not touch him, instead of looking too small and so vulnerable alone in a hospital bed. 

“Hey.” There’s insistence in Bucky’s voice now and he shifts on the narrow bed, reaching out for the Asset. But the Asset can’t make himself move, can’t lift his gaze from his own lap. Bucky can’t quite reach, his hand waving futilely in the empty space between them and it takes a long, awkward moment but slowly the Asset lifts his hands to catch Bucky’s. He can see, in the periphery of his vision, that Bucky is staring at the heavy metal cuffs around the Asset’s wrists. Bucky sighs, but he tightens his grip on the Asset’s hands. “Are you okay?” He sounds resigned, and a little disappointed, and the Asset hadn’t thought it was possible but the pain in his guts twists tighter.

“Operational,” he reports, and his own voice sounds worse than Bucky’s rough rasp. He has three bruised ribs and a cluster of itching welts on the side of his neck. Most troubling, the cuffs he has been outfitted with disrupts the power cells in the metal arm, making it a heavy dead weight that is difficult to move and pulls harshly against the internal bracing structure. It is an impairment - should he be required to fight to protect Bucky he would be at a disadvantage - but he is not incapacitated. 

“You know that’s not what I was asking,” Bucky chides.

“They did not want to let me see you,” he mumbles. The echos of terror are still zinging through his veins, the sight of Bucky being carried away by _doctors_ , of being told he cannot follow. Rogers and Barton would have eventually failed to contain him, but Romanov with her high voltage tasers had caught him by surprise and brought him down. Then hours of restraint, hours of considering every one of the thousands of terrible things that might be done to Bucky, that might have already happened to Bucky. Was he even still breathing when the doctors took him away?

“You’re here now,” Bucky says, disrupting the Asset’s train of thought. “You’re here, and I’m fine. I… I am fine, right?” He shifts in the bed, pulling his hand out of the Asset’s grip in order to shift himself into a sitting position against the pillows. “I mean, I feel okay, I think?”

The Asset wants to answer, but he’s saved from having to find the words because the glass door into the small medical room opens and Steve enters. It shouldn’t be startling - Steve has been sitting on the floor just outside of the room watching them through the glass wall since the Asset was allowed into the room. The Asset startles anyway, but at least now that Steve is here, hopefully he can give them both the answer to Bucky’s question.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says. There is caution in his tone, and as he enters the room he carefully stays on the opposite side of the bed from the Asset. Steve’s face is still swollen where the Asset punched him in the cheekbone. “How are you doing?”

Something in Bucky’s shoulders tightens when Steve enters the room, and he doesn’t quite look at Steve when he shrugs in response. “What did the scans show?” he asks. 

The Asset stiffens, his head snapping up. “Scans?” He glances between Rogers and Bucky; Rogers is grimacing and Bucky looks… what is that expression on Bucky’s face?

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky assures him quickly. “It wasn’t…” he pauses, biting his lip, “It wasn’t like before. They have some machine that just takes pictures of my brain, to make sure there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“It’s called a CT scan,” Steve adds helpfully. “It’s not invasive and it doesn’t hurt.”

The Asset looks to Bucky for confirmation, and he isn’t reassured when Bucky fidgets again. “Yeah, I mean, I didn’t feel anything,” Bucky says. “They just knocked me out because it looked a little-” he cuts himself off, but takes a breath and continues. “I got a little scared, so they gave me a sedative so that I could sleep through it.”

The Asset doesn't realize he's moved until the chair he was sitting on hits the floor with a crash. Bucky is so pale and small in the bed. The blood is a thundering roar in the Asset’s ears. Rogers hands have half lifted in preparation. 

“Don't!” Bucky says immediately, holding up a pacifying hand. He stares up at the Asset beseechingly, face ashes and terrified. “Please, don't get yourself into more trouble. I promise, I'm okay.”

“Well-” Steve grimaces, wincing even as he says it. It's enough to make both Bucky and the Asset freeze. “Technically… we don't… actually know.” He sighs, a loud gusty sound through his nose. “The scans didn't really show anything, which is good news except it means that we don't know still don't know why you passed out.”

“Actually, I have a thought on that.” Wilson is in the doorway, Banner on his heels, and almost as one Bucky, Steve, and the Asset all turn to stare at them. 

“How are you feeling, Bucky?” Banner asks. It does not escape the Asset’s notice that he moves to stand on the far side of the bed with Steve; no one but Bucky comes within three feet of him. 

Bucky looks supremely uncomfortable and shrugs again. “A little tired, but fine,” he mutters - there's dishonesty in his voice and the Asset frowns. 

Wilson and Banner exchange a glance and nod. 

“What is it?” Steve asks, concern open on his face. 

“Fatigue,” Banner says, with a helpless sort of shrug. “You're malnourished, and we ran a basic metabolic panel on your bloodwork, which came back deficient in, well, everything.”

“I said they could,” Bucky says quickly, before the Asset can move. He gives the Asset a pointed look, and reluctantly the Asset rights his chair again and sinks into it, though he keeps a narrow eyed glare on Banner and Wilson. 

“We also think you might have adrenal failure,” Wilson adds. He's standing at the foot of the bed - closer than anyone else has gotten to the Asset, a fact of which the Asset is keenly aware. “It's not uncommon in people who have experienced… excessive stress. People get stuck in a bad situation, dealing with constant deprivation, and… trauma-” he falters, his gaze lingering on Bucky's face, on his scars in a way that makes the Asset bristle. 

Bucky looks down, his hand fidgeting distractedly with the sheets. He doesn't look surprised so much a tired and resigned. 

“Failure? What does that mean?” Steve presses, shifting a little closer to the bed as though he wants to reach out and touch Bucky. “I mean, obviously he needs rest and food, but-”

“We can start figuring out a supplement regimen,” Banner says. “Rest and good nutrition are vital.” There’s a hesitation in his voice that makes the Asset growl before he can catch himself. Banner takes half a step back, grimacing apologetically but he doesn’t offer anything else.

“Can I ask you a question?” Wilson says carefully, glancing between Bucky and the Asset. Wilson seems to take Bucky's nod and the Asset’s stony glare as an affirmative response because he continues. “Neither of you seemed particularly… surprised by Bucky's… appearance?”

The Asset blinks. “That is how he looks,” he says; apparently Wilson’s eyes have become deficient. 

“When Winter was born, I was-” Bucky starts but falters, his hand curling into a fist. 

“You were captured by the-” Wilson pauses, glancing at Winter, “by the Russians, right?” He probes, but there is gentleness in his tone. 

Bucky nods, though he doesn't look at any of them. “They said that it… it shouldn't have been possible for me to survive the fall. They wanted to know how I did it-” he stops, his voice cracking and he has to take a careful breath. The Asset wants to tell him to stop, to shut up. They do not need this information, there is no sense in Bucky paining and exposing himself like this. “I couldn't tell them. I-I didn't know.”

The Asset cannot sit still. He also cannot hold Bucky like he wants to, not with his hands restrained. But when he moves onto the bed Bucky immediately shifts to curl up against him. Bucky is shaking, a fine tremor running through his whole body, but the contact seems to calm him. 

“Eventually, I guess they… they made a connection between me and Steve.” His voice is little more than a mumble, but judging from the reactions of various horror and concern going around them room they can all hear him just fine. The Asset tries to focus on providing physical comfort to Bucky without thinking about the words he’s saying.

“And thought you had the serum,” Banner surmises, with a nod of dawning comprehension. 

“Wait-” Steve blinks, and then grabs onto the wall as though he needs the support. “Zola. Zola was trying to reproduce the serum. Azzano-” he breaks off, pale and wide eyed. “Oh my god, Buck, I didn't know-”

Bucky shrugs, stiff and uncomfortable, his face nearly entirely hidden in the Asset’s neck. “I didn't either,” he whispers. It seems obvious to the Asset, but then again, the Asset has fragmented memories of Zola standing over them muttering about cell-binding and reexposure.

“Well, that explains the anomalies in the bloodwork,” Banner murmurs. “But the important thing is that Steve was right, rest, fluids, and proper nutrition and you should start to feel much better.”

“Does that mean I don't have to stay here any more?” Bucky asks, looking up at Banner with a hopeful expression. 

“We'd like to keep checking your vitals and blood work regularly, but no, I guess you don't have to stay here. As long as you make sure to take it easy.” Banner’s smile is friendly and his words seem to reassure Bucky, which is the only reason the Asset does not take exception to the mention of more blood removal. “I'll get you some nutrition guides and start working on a supplement formula for you, but we can go over all of that later.”

After that Banner excuses himself, ducking quickly out of the room. Wilson remains at the foot of the bed, watching both Bucky and the Asset contemplatively, his arms crossed over his chest. 

The Asset does not appreciate the scrutiny, and Bucky has been given permission to leave. So he stands, fairly certain he is capable of carrying Bucky even encumbered by the restraints on his hands. Bucky retains his grip on the Asset’s hands, however, his gaze turned toward Steve. 

“Will- Will you take the restraints off of Winter now?” Bucky asks. His voice is carefully modulated, his eyes lowered, though his grip on the Asset’s hands is almost tight enough to hurt. 

Wilson makes a sound in his throat, but Rogers has startled as though he's been punched. He glances toward Wilson, then back to Bucky, his gaze flicking briefly toward the Asset and finally locking on Bucky's face. He swallows, his throat bobbing visibly and his eyes are unusually wide. “Buck-” Rogers voice expresses deep discomfort. 

“Please, Stevie. He won't cause any trouble, will you, Winter?” It is strange; Bucky should know that such manipulative techniques have only limited effect. And Winter knows from Bucky's memories that Steve is uncommonly stubborn. 

Except that Steve has begun to blink, rapidly and excessively. “Yeah, no, of course, Buck,” Steve says, the hoarseness in his voice indicating strong emotion. He starts to move around the bed toward the Asset at a speed which makes the Asset tense instinctively. “We didn't mean- it's just he was panicked and we needed him to calm down-” Steve trails off into a ramble and the Asset stops listening. He has let go of Bucky's hand so that his own hands can half lift defensively as Rogers crowds in close. But Steve doesn't stop and the Asset holds very, very still. 

The Asset realizes that he cannot breathe. Steve suddenly feels overwhelmingly large up close. 

Steve does something complicated with the cuffs. “JARVIS, override Rogers-829-Zeta,” Steve says and the cuffs open soundlessly. Immediately the metal arm powers back on with a soft whir and the Asset has to bite back a sound of relief. 

The Asset does not bother waiting for the pain in his shoulder to subside before he quickly scoops Bucky up into his arms. Steve’s face is still twisted into an expression indicating complex emotion, but he backs away to clear the path between the Asset and the doorway. Wilson remains standing at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed and an expression of disapproval. The Asset keeps his gaze locked warily on Wilson, unable to contain the challenge in his expression, but Wilson doesn't react. He doesn't move either and the Asset gets Bucky out of the room without incident. 

As soon as they reach their bedroom, the Asset retrieves a glass of water for Bucky then settles them both into the bed. Bucky curls into him readily and it's as if they both succeed in drawing the first full breath either of them have experienced in a long time.

********  
For the next several days they are left largely to their own devices. 

The first thirty-six hours are harrowing. Winter compulsively checks Bucky's pulse every three minutes, and Bucky can't stop pricking his ears for the sound of soldiers coming to arrest Winter. But Bucky has no more fainting spells, and Steve is the only one who ever knocks on their door, so gradually they both start to relax. 

They spend much of their time sleeping, curled up together under the blankets. It's a lot like before they were forced apart, except that Winter is more reluctant than ever to interact with others, and Bucky - for the first time in seventy years - has the capacity to start feeling bored. 

Steve tries not to hover, and for the most part he succeeds, except for the six times a day that he comes to their door with food if they haven't appeared in the kitchen of their own volition. The food is good and plentiful, in keeping with the file full of nutritional information that Bruce provided, so that Winter even stops trying to make Bucky eat more than fifty percent of what Steve brings them at a time. 

In the end they can only sleep so much. It's weird, to feel bored and the early stirrings of restlessness for the first time since before The Fall, but the voice in the ceiling helpfully shows them how movies can be projected onto the blank spot on the wall opposite their bed. Winter remains deeply suspicious of “JARVIS”, but he enjoys the cartoons that JARVIS plays for them as much as Bucky does and eventually he stops pulling one of his knives every time JARVIS speaks. Bucky likes JARVIS, he's friendly and polite, and Bucky doesn't have to feel self conscious or anxious when talking to him. It's nice, to lay in bed watching the moving pictures and be able to ask JARVIS for information or explanations of references that they don't understand. 

On the third day, Steve tells them that Barton’s come back - without the twins. Steve explains that they're going to stay in the country with Barton’s family in the country while Wanda recovers her strength. Winter bristles, but even he has to begrudgingly admit that Wanda had been in bad shape before they left. Steve also makes a pointed comment about Clint’s leg healthing well, which makes Winter deflate a little. Winter still grumbles about it, but it means that there's no point in talking about being put back together for the time being. 

On the fifth day, Bruce arrives to recheck Bucky's bloodwork. Winter deigns to let Bruce into their room, then immediately wraps his entire body around Bucky so that he can glare at Bruce over Bucky's shoulder. Bucky tolerates it indulgently, leaning back against Winter. 

Until he sees the needle. 

Suddenly he's back in a dirty, underground lab - dozens of them, in different countries, different decades. He's strapped to cold metal tables. The space where his arm used to be is a raw, open wound-

He moves before he realizes it and he just barely feels his fist connect before hands - one flesh and one metal - restrain him. Then there's soft fabric against his face. Rough stubble rubbing against his cheek and warm breath in his ear. The metal hand is resting against the small of his back, fingers spread wide and cool against Bucky's skin.

Pulled back into the moment Bucky is able to take a deep breath, burying his nose in the soft skin behind Winter’s ear. There is a low, sustained rumble making Winter’s chest vibrate, which is probably a growl, but to Bucky it just means comfort and safety. 

“I'm okay,” Bucky forces himself to say, though he isn't sure it's loud enough for anyone but Winter to hear. It takes a few more breaths before he can pull back enough to look around. Bruce has retreated back out of arm's reach, his bag of supplies clutched to his chest. “Sorry,” Bucky mumbles - it doesn't look like Bruce is hurt, but he's tense and the anxiety is a hot weight in the pit of Bucky’s stomach. 

“It's okay. My fault,” Bruce says quickly. “I should have been more careful.”

“Still.” He takes another breath, then rests his face back in the crook of Winter's neck and holds out his arm. “Go ahead. I just… can't look.”

It isn't easy. Winter keeps a tight hold on him and he keeps his face hidden in Winter's shoulder. Bruce narrates what he's doing in a low, soothing voice and Bucky only tries to pull away a little when he inserts the needle. 

Then it's over, Bruce packs up his supplies and quickly excuses himself. Steve hovers for a few minutes longer, his face pinched in a look of unhappy worry, but Winter bundles Bucky back up in their nest of blankets and strokes his hair until his body goes loose and he falls asleep. 

*****

The next day Wilson suggests - via Steve, because Winter isn't about to let anyone else into their room again so soon - that some light activity might help Bucky build up some strength. 

So they start to take walks. Slowly and carefully. Just around the edges of their bedroom at first, then short trips around the rest of the apartment - carefully timed during the two hours every morning and the occasional afternoon when Steve is out of the apartment. 

Wilson’s right; after over a week of good sleep and plentiful food, their walks gradually get longer and faster. As Bucky's endurance grows they start to carefully, tentatively venture out of the apartment. Neither of them are inclined toward dealing with people still, so they go late at night when the majority of the Tower is quiet and empty.

Winter doesn't want to go out at all, at first. But JARVIS reassures them that it's allowed. Steve sleeps with his door open, so they have to sneak past him, but Steve is a heavy sleeper and they both have plenty of practice being quiet. Once they leave the apartment JARVIS guides them with soft lights to illuminate their path and a glowing holographic map to tell them which areas are dedicated to which purposes and where they should and shouldn't go. 

There aren't many places they aren't allowed to go - the private residences, though they can walk down the hallways connecting them; a few of the labs contain sensitive material, though both Bucky and Winter are instinctively inclined toward avoiding all lab and medical areas anyway. The lower floors are public and rented out to commercial entities, including four restaurants, two salons, several clothing stores, and a cafe. The cafe and one of the restaurants are open all night, so they rarely venture down to those floors. There are several floors of offices and conference rooms of varying sizes, which are empty but kind of boring. The Tower also contains several recreational areas, including gyms, a full shooting range, and an indoor swimming pool. 

The floor attached to the landing pad quickly becomes their favorite, despite the unfortunate incident that had occurred there. They don't go out onto the terrace often - the couple of times that they try Winter can't stop checking sightlines and within a few minutes of staring out at the vast, open space Bucky forgets how to breathe. But the room inside is massive, split up into several levels and areas, including a full kitchen as well as a separate full bar, and an area with a pool table, dart boards, and other games of trajectory and skill. Nearly half of the space is made up of arrangements of comfortable furniture and there is a massive collection of electronics which JARVIS explains are for viewing videos and playing virtual simulation games. 

By the end of the second week they're comfortable enough to sneak snacks from the shared kitchen on the common floor and to cautiously play darts - it's a little unfair since Winter has the metal arm and Bucky is still shaky, but they don't play _against_ each other and it's good practice. Bucky gets JARVIS to tell him about the video games, but the system makes a loud noise when he turns it on which terrifies both Bucky and Winter, so they avoid the electronics after that.

*****

One afternoon Bucky is sitting cross legged on their bed. He's poking at JARVIS’ holographic map, planning which parts of the Tower they'll visit that night. Winter's sitting at the foot of the bed, cleaning and sharpening his new collection of knives. There's a nice, comfortable silence hanging over the room and mostly empty plates spotted with sandwich crumbs abandoned in the blankets between them. 

Bucky is so focused on tracing a path straight down to the garage level that it takes him a while to realize that Winter has stopped working with his knives and is staring at the map hovering in the air between them. There's a peculiar expression on Winter's face, one that Bucky isn't quite sure how to interpret. When tilting his head quizzically elicits no response, Bucky clears his throat pointedly.

Winter startles but looks up to meet Bucky's gaze. “What is it?” Bucky nudges. He moves the map aside so that he can see Winter clearly without the glowing blue lines between them. Winter's gaze, however, follows the map.

It takes him a few minutes to pulls his words together, and when he finally speaks his voice is a little too flat. “We could leave,” he says. He blinks several times, then jerks his head up sharply to look at Bucky.

Bucky just frowns in confusion. “Do you want to go on our walk now?” He asks. “Steve's out in the living room still, but if you want-.”

Winter shakes his head but reaches out, pulling the map forward again and adjusting it so that it just shows a detailed focus on the garage. JARVIS has helpfully augmented the map to provide a wealth of information on each of the areas in the Tower, including how many and which types of vehicles are housed in the garage level. “We could leave,” he repeats, slowly, his voice little more than a whisper. He glances around furtively, checking for eavesdroppers. “Gather supplies, wait until dark. As long as the computer doesn't try to stop us-”

Bucky has to swallow hard as he processes what Winter is saying, dizzy with the thought. It's too many things to consider at once; running away, hiding, traveling the country, no one telling them what to do. They'd need money, a vehicle that won't be tracked. Surely someone will follow them, try to take them back, if not HYDRA then- “What about Steve?” He blurts. 

Winter scowls. “He will not find us. I will keep you safe,” he declares firmly. Carefully he sets aside his knives and dismisses the map, crawling forward to pull Bucky into his lap. “We would be free,” he says quietly. 

Bucky bites his lip, but he can't ignore reality. “We'd be hunted,” he argues. “Steve won't- we're safer here. Steve can help us, and Bruce, and Sam, and Barton. I… I think even Romanov wants to help, in her own way.”

Winter makes an unhappy sound, tightening his arms around Bucky possessively. “I will keep you safe,” he insists, though it's more of a grumble than an argument. 

Bucky twists around enough to rest their foreheads together. The bed beneath them is soft and comfortable, and the half formed, thrilling, terrifying thought of leaving slides away. “I know,” he agrees, his voice soft and intimate, “I just don't think you have to do it alone any more.” 

Winter huffs and pulls away, going back to his knives. He's sulking, too quiet and too focused for a while. But Bucky settles down to watch a movie and Winter eventually gives up on brooding to spoon up behind Bucky and take a nap.

Neither of them bring it up again, but Bucky knows Winter’s still thinks about it sometimes.   
When he stares out of a window a little too long, or walks between the cars in the garage a little too slowly. When he tucks some extra packages of food away under their bed next to some extra clothes, but then inevitably eats the food when they’re settling back down after a walk.

Things are quiet, though, in the Tower. Things are good. Days and weeks pass and Bucky finds himself gradually acclimating. The sound of people’s voices isn’t quite so grating any more. He startles less when Steve knocks on their door and flinches less when Winter turns on the lights. He gets better at doing things one handed - though he still inevitably relies on Winter for a lot of help.

He thinks maybe Winter is acclimating too, at least a little bit. He’s less likely to glower when Steve checks in on them, and he stops glowering almost entirely when Bucky talks about Steve. He still prefers to hide if they come across someone in the halls during their nighttime walks, but he stops insisting that they retreat immediately to their room every time. He even, Bucky notices, starts to refer to some of the Tower’s residents by their first names.

It’s weird; after seventy years Bucky’s forgotten what it feels like to be alive. Maybe, he thinks, he’s starting to remember, and it’s thrilling.


	10. Chapter 10

*******  
Chapter Eight  
******

Steve stops dead just inside the door to the apartment. He's still sweaty from his morning workout and he’d been thinking about nothing more than getting into the shower and what to make for second breakfast.

Except Bucky and Winter are out of their room.

Steve isn’t stupid - he knows they’ve been sneaking out to wander around the Tower at night. It’s been hard to resist the urge to follow them, to check on them constantly, and only JARVIS’ assurances that he would alert Steve if they showed any signs of distress kept Steve in bed. On Sam’s advice, Steve has been struggling to maintain a consistent schedule and give them space, and they’ve always been back in their room by the time Steve gets up or comes back from his workouts. 

But now they aren’t. They’re on the floor in front of the massive window that makes up most of the east side of the apartment, Bucky sitting upright and cross legged while Winter stretches out across the floor, his head in Bucky’s lap. Their backs are to the apartment door - and thus Steve - but they’re both suspiciously still.

Steve takes a breath and remembers Sam’s advice - _be patient, give them space, try not to make a big deal out of things_ \- so he quietly drops his keys on the bedside table and goes into his room. He takes a shower, at his normal pace, even washing his hair twice to fill the time. He dresses. Brushes his teeth again for good measure. He spends the entire time bracing himself to go back out into the empty living room. He tells himself it’s fine, the fact that they were out when he came in at all is progress, that he has to be patient and accept the small baby steps forward.

He leaves his room, and neither Bucky nor Winter have moved. Steve is almost afraid to look at them, as though they might disappear if he acknowledges their presence. So he forces himself to act normal - ish - to skirt around the living room and into the kitchen. He stands awkwardly in the kitchen and eats a banana, both watching and trying not to watch the pair on the floor. They’re both facing the window, Bucky’s fingers carding slowly through the loose strands of Winter’s hair. The silence in the room feels heavy, but not stifling.

Steve hesitates uncertainly after finishing his banana. Normally he would sit in the living room and read or try to draw for a little while after second breakfast, but he doesn’t want to intrude-

“You can stay,” Bucky says, though he hasn’t turned to look at Steve. His voice is still rough and low, but he sounds calm and his shoulders are looser and more relaxed than Steve has seen them since 1941.

After a moment more of hesitation, Steve grabs three water bottles from the fridge and slowly edges across the living room. Winter stiffens as Steve gets closer, but Bucky does something with his fingers against Winter’s scalp and Winter just grunts but stays put. Carefully Steve circles around to Bucky’s open side - giving Winter as much space as he can - and offers out one of the water bottles from the full length of his arm.

Bucky takes it with a small smile - Steve hopes he hides how hard it is to see the twisted line that Bucky’s smile has become thanks to the scars. “Want to sit with us?” Bucky asks, indicating the floor beside him. There’s something a little uncertain in Bucky’s expression, his eyes darting toward Steve and away again.

Steve has to swallow hard against the lump of hope and relief that swells in his throat. “Sure, o-okay,” he manages, and thankfully Bucky doesn’t comment on the slight squeak in his voice. Steve folds his legs under him, carefully sitting with his back to the wall so that he can look at Bucky and Winter.

Winter grumbles and shifts, pressing his nose into the crook of Bucky’s knee. His face is mostly hidden behind his hair, but Steve can just see one eye open and turned toward the window. It’s warm in front of the window, the sun rising just high enough to be visible over the tops of the other buildings around the Tower and the carpet in front of the window is a wash of warm, golden sunlight.

It’s strangely beautiful, the loose sprawl of Winter’s body stretched out in the sunbeam, Bucky’s legs cradling Winter’s head, with both of their faces turns toward the light like flowers trying to soak it in. Steve doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Bucky half turns to tilt his head at him. “The light’s better out here than in our room,” Bucky says, as though their behavior needs an explanation. 

“It… It is nice,” Steve agrees. It’s awkward, and he hates that. He hates that he doesn’t know how to talk to Bucky any more; even though before they could sit in companionable silence for hours without _needing_ to speak, now he barely knows how to be in the same room with him.

Bucky turns back to the window, and there’s something vague and distant in his expression, as though he’s seeing so much more than buildings and light through the glass. “We didn’t really get to be in the sun, before-” he stops, swallowing hard. Steve isn’t sure Bucky is actually talking to him, but he listens attentively all the same, his heart pounding in the base of his throat. Winter shifts again in Bucky’s lap, but Bucky’s fingers are still working through his hair and he just curls a loose hand around Bucky’s ankle before settling again. Bucky’s mouth twists into an expression that tries to be a smile but holds no actual humor. “Winter only ever got to be outside when they sent him on a mission.” His hand moves briefly from Winter’s hair to stroke down the length of Winter’s spine and back up again. Winter’s spine arches and rolls in a way that reminds Steve of the cat that used to hang out on their fire escape.

Steve gets caught up watching the graceful roll of Winter’s spine, so that it takes him a minute to really process what Bucky’s said. He remembers the file full of horrors that Natasha had given him, remembers listening to B- Winter, that was Winter, recount seventy years of torture and abuse in a flat, dead voice as though it was just another mission report. He looks at Bucky’s scarred face and his mind skates over thoughts of the kind of conditions Bucky must have suffered in order for his mind to split in two and create Winter. It sheds a whole new light - metaphorically - on the way Winter is stretched out, on the gentle but consistent way that Bucky keeps touching him, soothing him.

Steve has to hastily duck his head and pretend to focus on his water bottle while he tries to blink the sting out of his eyes. “Y-You can sit out here as much as you want, of course,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “Bucky, I-” but he stops. What else is he supposed to say? What could he possibly say to address this… everything. “I’m so sorry,” he ends up saying, the words slipping through his lips in a whisper before he can stop them.

Bucky blinks, his eyebrows drawing together in a way that makes the scar running across his eye pucker and stand out even more visibly. “It ain’t your fault, Stevie,” he says, like it’s that simple, like that wipes away everything.

Steve opens his mouth, but his throat is too dry and tight to force words through, and he doesn’t know what he would say anyway. So he shuts his mouth and takes a drink from the water bottle instead and silence falls over them again. Bucky turns his face fully back to the window and the longer they sit the more tension drains out of Winter until Steve almost thinks he’s asleep. 

“It’s a good view,” Bucky eventually says, and the silence has lasted for so long that Steve almost startles. “Definitely better than the trash chute behind our old place in Brooklyn.”

“Wait, you… you remember that?” Impulsively Steve moves a little closer, but Winter tenses and shifts and Steve backs off again.

Bucky rests his hand on Winter’s head and gives Steve a look that Steve thinks might be vaguely apologetic. “Yeah, I… the wipes didn’t affect me, as long as-” he cuts himself off and shakes his head. “I remember,” he says instead with a little shrug, but he looks away quickly, his gaze turning back to the cityscape outside, his eyes roving slowly over the buildings breaking up the skyline. “You must have filled so many notebooks drawing this view,” he murmurs.

Steve chokes a little without making a sound. For a wild moment none of this feels real; Bucky looks so soft, so serene, the golden morning light forming a halo in his messy, shaggy hair and his eyes drinking in the light like a petitioner at an alter. His mind starts tracing the lines of Bucky’s face and suddenly his fingers itch for a piece of charcoal. But then he realizes what Bucky actually said and he snaps back to reality. He flushes a little, turning his head to actually look at the view out of his window for possibly the first time - he hadn’t spent much time here before, when he was mostly working out of D.C., and since coming back to New York, since finding Bucky, he’s been so preoccupied, so focused on making sure Bucky - and now Winter - is okay. “No, I…” he falters, “I haven’t really drawn much since I’ve been here,” he admits. Which isn’t entirely a lie - he hasn’t drawn _much_ , and not while in New York, and when he did draw the unsettlingly foreign skyline of the city that should be home but isn’t any more hadn’t really held his attention.

Bucky blinks. “Bullshit.” It’s half snort, half outrage, and it hits Steve hard in the stomach because it occurs to him that this is the first real expression he’s seen on Bucky’s face that wasn’t fear or uncertainty. 

It’s startling and Steve can’t help a little huff of laughter and he feels his nose wrinkle up ruefully. “I’ve been kind of… distracted?” he offers, and the expression drops immediately off of Bucky’s face.

“Right,” Bucky mumbles, ducking his head. “Because of… us.” Winter grumbles wordlessly, rolling over to press his face into Bucky’s stomach and loop his metal arm around his waist.

“Bucky, I’m not-” Steve starts, but he has to stop and take a breath. He can’t- after all this time, Bucky is _right there_ , he’s real and solid and he’s suffered so much but he’s _there_ still able to appreciate the beauty of a sunrise and stroke Winter’s hair so tenderly. And Winter too. Winter who was literally born in the pits of hell, who is able to be here, able to lay stretched out and at ease in the sunlight that he was never allowed to have before; Winter who is slowly, perhaps painfully, learning to trust.

Steve reaches out, with just the tips of his fingers, and brushes the hair back from Bucky’s face. “I’m so fucking glad you’re here, Buck,” he whispers, and it feels like the words are going to tear his chest on the way out.

Bucky keeps his head lowered, but Steve could swear there’s the beginnings of a flush giving his cheeks a hint of color. Bucky blinks a few times and he lifts his hand from Winter’s hair to cup it around Steve’s. Steve pretends not to notice that Bucky’s hand is shaking when Bucky threads their fingers together. “I’m glad we’re here too,” he agrees quietly. He finally looks up and his eyes are overbright but the crooked tilt is tugging at the corners of his lips again. “Welcome to the future, huh?”

Steve lets out a short, hoarse laugh and squeezes Bucky’s hand; for the first time he genuinely does feel glad to be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! (For Now)
> 
> This fic has been a wild, emotional ride from conception to posting. Thank you all so much for reading and leaving lovely comments. I really hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


End file.
